


Guardian of Flame

by dinkyrose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Captivity, Guide Greg, Guide John, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Injury, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sentinel Sherlock, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Spirit Animals, Supernatural Elements, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinkyrose/pseuds/dinkyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes might just be the most powerful Sentinel England has seen in over a century, wild and un-bonded he leaves his home in search of his true Guide before the The Tower can claim him to harness his power and force a bond with the young and enigmatic Moriarty. </p><p>In a world of death and destruction, magic and spirit animals, a boy named John Watson may be Sherlock's only hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Category One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first try at Sentinelverse, please feel free to point out any glaring errors!
> 
> I'm hoping to put a playlist together for this fic eventually but for starters my favourite so far is:
> 
> Kids In The Dark - All Time Low

 

 

“Fucking hell they’ve got one, they’ve really fucking got one”.

The voice of the man in the bed by his side cuts through the fog in his brain. Sirens blare overhead, rending the air with an ear-splitting wail, a sound unheard of in all of the time he has been here, except for simulations and drills. Greg blinks, bleary eyed in the sudden change from dark to light as the generator springs into life for the day, flooding the dorm with a harsh fluorescent glare.

Is it day?

The dorms are all below sea level so he can’t tell for sure, but it seems like only moments since he sank into his bunk the night before after a day in the tunnels, bone-cold and tired, grimacing at the irritating grains that find their way into every orifice no matter how long he spends in the shower.

“Move it now Lestrade”, snaps Murray, kicking his bed as he rushes past. Greg groans and actually rolls onto the floor, taking the covers down with him as he falls. Locker doors crash with metallic clangs which make him wince as he tries to stand, the assault on the senses overwhelming, the noise and activity, bodies jumping out of beds and pounding across the concrete floors.

And all of it happens with the ear buds still in.

What a shitty way to wake up.

He rips out the buds, and that’s a big mistake. The noise level ramps up again, and its times like this, when there’s too much of everything, that he wonders how the hell no-one’s noticed, how they don’t know yet. He can _feel_ the damn adrenaline, it’s pouring off them in waves, but he damps it down, closes that door in his mind and gets on with what he needs to do, drags his sorry arse to his locker and gets dressed in silence, pulling on the grey shirt and trousers that serve as a uniform here, doing his best to ignore the gnawing pit of hunger in his stomach.

None of them will eat, not yet.

The castle buzzes, alive with activity as he runs up the stairs to the observation deck, thankful for the change of scenery today and just as keen as everyone else for the first sight of the recovery mission. It is morning. Just. But the sky is grey with low-lying cloud, and the wind is high, as it always is here, audible even through the thick glass dome that covers what was once the battlements, a thousand years ago.

“The word from the top is a Category One”, Murray is a bundle of energy running at his side, more animated than he’s seen him in months.

“Yeah well that’s what the siren is for you idiot, they’re not going to risk it for anything less”. Greg snaps, nerves frayed already as he slaps some water on his wild, fluffy bed-hair and scrubs a cold wet flannel over his face.

Bamburgh Castle, his home now is the fortress of the North, pre-dating the Viking raids. It stands proud at the peak of a steep, rocky hill on the Western side, the Eastern walls facing out towards the cold North Sea. Greg has been stationed here for three years now, as a latent Guide there was never any doubt he would end up at a facility. But it’s a job for life and that means a lot to a kid from the lower class, his family get protection, subsidised housing and medical care, and they need it too, his dad would have died by now without the drugs for his heart condition.

Still, if nothing happens by the end of year four it’ll be manual grunt work for the rest of his fucking life.

Like yesterday, clearing out landfalls and shoring up any cracks and gaps in the thick stone tunnels that run under the castle and out to sea. No-one knows how far east they spread, North, South and West are done as far as they can tell, and this is the last leg, the most dangerous. But they need the protection. No-one knows how far the influence of the Tower can reach.

The truth is, Greg manifested months ago and they still don’t know. It hit him like a sucker punch all those emotions crowding in, the thoughts, feelings, nightmares and dreams, all of it. He was sick for days, puking and shaking in his bunk with a bucket at the side, but when they ran the tests again he still displayed as negative, dormant, but he knows what’s happening, why he doesn’t register and what it means.

He checks the display on the screen as he takes his place, a clear sky means nothing, he has to scan for drones. The vehicles won’t be cleared for access otherwise and they need to get those vans back safe to the base. Greg runs the programme and four red blips appear at the outer edge, waiting for the signal to begin the approach. They need ten minutes for a clear run, its open country to the West, nothing but fields and farms for ten miles until you hit the forest and every second is vital. He quickly runs a scan on the Eastern side too, while the overseer clicks his tongue with impatience, but it’s Greg’s neck on the line if he makes a mistake and even though he knows there’s a clear view from here on the summit, right out over the water to the horizon, he runs it through twice to be sure.

“Clear”, he gives the green light and sits back to catch a breath, while he thinks about the implications, how everything will change the second that being, whoever it is, enters the facility.

A Category One means a Sentinel, and there hasn’t been a new one in the North for sixteen years, and still it doesn’t make any sense, because you can’t just fly under the radar now, with the regular sweeps and enforced registration, ‘unknown’ is a concept that simply doesn’t exist anymore.

Greg wonders where the hell they came from.

His ears prick up as the airlock doors slide open again, everyone who should be here is, and no-one interrupts a vehicle recovery for any reason, it’s been drilled into them from the start, delays can cause deaths. The overseer looks murderous, and stalks off to rain fire and brimstone on the poor unfortunate bastard, but quickly backtracks, scuttling back up the aisle, entering his office and closing the door hard enough to rattle the toughened glass.

One of the suits, a top dog from the research lab comes in, looks around, catches Greg’s eye and crooks a finger to beckon him over.

Shit, what the hell do they want with him?

Murray shoots him a ‘what the fuck?’ look as every pair of eyes in the room turn to stare, but this isn’t exactly a choice, it’s an order, so he pushes back the chair, swallowing past the nervous knot in his throat and follows the man out into the stairwell.

The airlock closes and the air is so silent he can hear the whoosh of blood as it pulses through his ears, while the suit from on high stares at him like a lab specimen. He’s tall and old, with pallid skin from decades spent in the confines of the ancient castle. But his eyes are bright and all-knowing, peering out at Greg through thick glass lenses, his hands clasped confidently at the small of his back.

“Gregory Lestrade”, the man states in a clipped tone, “You’re….nineteen years and nine months?”

“Er….yeah?”

The man gives him a withering look and he closes his mouth quickly, feeling like a prize idiot. Obviously he’s here to be spoken at, not to, and this man, whoever he is, already has all the answers he wants.

He gestures to Greg to walk back down the staircase and they plod side by side, their footsteps echoing in the empty space.

“Your lack of progress is a concern Mr Lestrade”. He looks at Greg to gauge his reaction and Greg tries his best to remain convincingly blank. Just three more months and they’ll take their eye off him again, and instead of testing him every week, it will just be a once a year. “I have an interesting proposition to put to you”. Greg’s head snaps round in alarm. “Good”, the man says in amusement, “You are paying attention, I thought as much…I thought you might like to work with us on the assessment team, see if it doesn’t ignite that spark”.

The man grins at him in a way he thinks is friendly but just comes off creepy as hell to Greg, and he knows that this could be it, he’ll be fucked, because if they put him in a room with a Sentinel, which they obviously plan to do, all the carefully constructed walls he’s built around himself will come crashing down.

Another alarm sounds out, but this time he’s the only one that can hear it, a high pitched screech of anguish and a flash of white wing and all he can think is, _I know, I tried to hold on, I’m sorry._

oOo

Sherlock is sweaty and thirsty and really fucking angry, stuck in the back of a sweltering van as it sits motionless, god knows where, and waits with the engine ticking over.

He’s mostly angry at himself.

This isn’t exactly part of the plan, to be stuck here, trapped, when he should be out there looking for his Guide. But even Sherlock’s impressive stamina can’t keep him going for more than forty-eight hours, even he needs to stop, to rest, to eat to sleep. He does his best to ignore his physical needs and knows this failure could cost him dearly.

He can feel it though, the Guide, they are somewhere close by. Sherlock estimates not more than a mile at most, but the kicker is it could be in any direction.

And male, most definitely male.

The second guard stops talking to the driver long enough to notice he’s awake. He tosses Sherlock a skin of water which slaps against his chest and drops down into his lap and he raises an eyebrow in answer; so this is the level of stupidity he’s going to have to deal with.

“And how am I supposed to drink this…with my feet?”

The guard stares, looking nervous at the thought that he’s going to have to approach him, despite the fact he’s a good four stone heavier than Sherlock, and he’s armed, oh and yeah, he isn’t the one with his hands currently tied behind his back.

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh, “I’ll be a good boy, I promise”.

The guard snatches up the skin and unscrews the cap, he extends his arm out towards Sherlock’s mouth, still determined to keep him at arms length.

As if he can do a damn thing in this position.

As if they’re scared of him.

Good. They damn well should be.

More water runs down his chin than hits his mouth, but he greedily gulps down what he can until the guard decides he’s had enough for now and snatches it away.

“What’s the hold-up?” he asks, conversationally. “Having a little trouble preparing the lead-lined cell?”

“Cocky little shit for someone in your unfortunate position”, the driver says, peering at him through the rear view mirror. Sherlock’s suitably withering reply is swallowed by the crackle of static on the short wave radio.

_Clear for the approach_

It’s the only thing he hears before the van bursts into life and he falls to the floor again, tipping sideways and cracking his head off the hard metal surface, no arms free to break the fall.

They travel uphill, and the road winds along like a snake, left, right, and left again as they take the hairpins at speed. Old roads then, he thinks, so he must be still in the country, on the coastal roads and not the main route that would take him all the way into Scotland.

He smiles to himself. So he’s not so very far away from where he needs to be.

Sherlock wonders just how much trouble it will cause when he brother finds out where he is. He doesn’t even bother to consider if his brother even knows he is alive. Of course he does. That is a given. There is nothing on this godforsaken island of which Mycroft Holmes is unaware. But sixteen months is a long time by anyone’s standards, sixteen months spent searching, alone, by choice.

Sherlock won’t drag anyone down with him in this, The Tower means to claim him and Sherlock belongs to no-one.

He means to keep it that way.

And now he’s here, in the wildest of the English counties, the last bastion of defence against the Scots and the final seat of defiance against the all-pervading influence of the Tower, Northumberland. It is easy to see why. The land is wild, untouched by time and steeped in glorious history, always the most sparsely populated, always neglected by the south. There are no cities here, nor ever were, just small towns, smaller villages and farms; a mistake, an oversight which will cost the Tower and the arrogant arseholes who believe they can own him, dearly in the end.

The van slows down again, the sharp metallic groan of heavy iron gates make Sherlock clench his teeth as it sears through every nerve-ending.

The door is wrenched open, a heavy weight falls on top of him, presses Sherlock face down against the floor of the van.

He struggles against the bonds around his wrists, he can’t move, can’t breathe; a stinking wet rag is pressed against his face.

The world goes black....


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has a very bad day, caught between a rock and a hard place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for descriptions of gore and injury in this chapter - nothing too icky though, just in case it's a trigger for anyone!

 

The heat is unbearable today. Thick muggy air with nowhere to circulate and black dust that hangs like acrid city smog, filling up his lungs and coating his skin in an oily film of sweat and coal. Some trickles down his forehead from the confines of his filthy yellow helmet and John swipes them away with the back of his hand before it can run down into his eyes.

He is crammed inside a low and narrow crawl space, chipping away at the brittle black seam in a bed of rock one mile below sea level, both small and strong, John is the ideal man for this back-breaking dangerous task.

It feels like he’s been wedged in here for an eternity. Four hours and no break, with a bone-dry throat and sore, cracked lips; he’s desperate for a drink, almost delirious with dreams of a chilled pint of foamy amber ale at the pub after shift, but he’s also quite desperate for a piss and won’t be back on the surface for another couple of hours.

The lamp on the front of his helmet flickers and John feels a surge of irrational anxiety. Every one of them fears it, being trapped here in the dark, underground. It follows them daily, every time they step into the cage and the winding gear turns, sending them deep, deep down into the mine. His father died down here, and his granddad before him, caught between explosions when the men hit an unexpected pocket of gas. And the passage of time doesn’t make things any safer, the job is just as dangerous now as it was a hundred years ago thanks to the traitors on the hill in that damn fucking castle, draining the life out of the rest of the County with their endless demand for electricity.

The headlamp flickers again and John can’t understand why. They run on lithium batteries changed every week so exactly this sort of shit doesn’t happen anymore. He places his pick down carefully at his side and reaches down to his tool belt for the short range walkie-talkie, to ask what the fuck is going on. Frozen, hand half-way there, he hears it, a low ominous rumble coming from deep underground even further down the tunnels.

Jesus fucking Christ.

John braces himself, rolling his body towards the rough black seam and drawing his knees up as far as he can. It won’t be enough to protect him fully, but it’s as much of a cover as he can hope for down here. Others aren’t so lucky, he hears their frantic yells and heavy boots as they clatter down the iron tracks that split the tunnel in two. They are heading for the cage, but John knows they’ll never get there in time, a twenty second window is all they can hope for and it takes a strength of will to stay put as the flood of panic washes over him.

Air, from god knows where rushes by the small space as the blast hits hard. Rocks tumble around him, bounce off his helmet and skitter away into the total darkness. The lamp cuts out completely and John can’t see a thing, eyes open, eye shut, there’s no bloody difference. He keeps them shut anyway, and his mouth too, as the rocks and debris keep falling around him and he wonders if this is it, if he will be buried here in a carbon grave, sealed in a tomb of black gold.

But still John prays that the rest of the men will have the sense to hide and not run, this shit isn’t over and the worst is yet to come. And then it does. The gates of hell are flung wide, high-pitched screams cut through the inky air and John knows that it’s coming, coming for him, coming fast, and before he can give it conscious thought his mind sends out a bright pulse of empathy even though John knows it’s too late to help; nothing can stop this.

The roaring wall of heat and flame rushes past his hiding place and John feels the plastic of his helmet melting onto the top of his skull, a glutinous drop of liquid, the consistency of candlewax drips onto his cheek and sizzles on his flesh like oil on a griddle pan. The skin on his bare arms erupts into blisters and the soles of his feet burn with white- hot intensity through the bottom of the thick hobnail boots. He feels his eyelashes singe and curl like when you stand too close to an open oven door, and he turns his face against the wall and prays; his entire body burns and it feels like death, like the end of the world, like lying in the path of a fire-breathing dragon.

He’s a sinner, he’s been judged and he’s going to fucking hell.

But it passes in seconds, and John lies very still for what feels like an eternity but in reality is only a minute or so, until the rock-falls ebb away into a trickle of grit and dust and the final aftershocks rumble down the main tunnel. His head is a dull buzz of muted sound, deafened by the blast-wave, and a high-pitched ear-splitting whine cuts through it. Not dead then, he thinks and tries an experimental wriggle. Nuggets of coal fall away around his arms and legs as he struggles to free them.

Fucking hell it hurts. John groans as he pulls his right leg free and it screams with pain below the knee. White spots appear at the edge of his vision as a sharp chunk of rock falls away from his body and skitters away into the darkness.

“Argh fuck”, he grunts, flexing the limb. It’s not broken, but the linen of his bright orange boiler suit sticks wetly to his skin and a warm trail of blood rolls slowly down his shin and drips onto the filthy ground.

He can’t turn around and so he rolls out backwards instead, sliding down a bank of loose rubble unable to stop the downward momentum, until he comes to a halt, rolls over again gingerly and pushes himself to his knees. The lights are still out and he can’t even see his hands where they scrabble for purchase on the shifting ground in front of him, so he stays as he is on all fours, wincing at the pressure on his damaged leg and crawls forward toward the desperate cries of the other men, their screams, muffled groans and waves of pain and panic.

It takes every ounce of strength John has not to swoon.

Barely a metre in, his hand connects with a warm fleshy mass on the tunnel floor, and skirts up to ghost over the remains of what was once a low wagon, the one’s that run the coal on rails for transportation to the surface. The conveyor belts are long gone, not enough juice to power them long-term and so they were forced back to the old-fashioned way, loading the wagons by hand to be pulled along the track by a team of tough little pit-ponies.

John feels his way cautiously back down to the ground, his palms now sticky with blood.

He retches in the dust at his side.

The horse is dead, there is nothing he can do here.

“Mmngh” . John hears a muffled moan up ahead and turns, scrabbling in the dirt. Sharp shards of rock and debris cut into his palms and knees as he shuffles forward towards the sound and the flickering pulse of energy.

“J….John?” A weak voice calls out, turning quickly into rasping breaths and an ugly wet-sounding cough.

“Albert?” No answer. John urges his battered body on. They only spoke this morning, joking together as they stood in line for the cage to come back up, shivering in the pre-dawn light. Albert knew his Grandad when he started down here in the mine at the age of eighteen. John comes of age next year, if he makes it that far, but the odds of him surviving to see his next birthday are growing longer with each passing day.

OoO

_“Bloody fish paste again” Albert groaned, shaking his lunch tin with a rueful sigh. “I told our lass, if I wanted to smell like a bloody rancid fanny all day, I’d sooner take a trip to the prossies down the Quay on Cowpen Road…what you got there lad?”_

_“Ham and pease-pudding”, John admitted with a grin._

_“Yer spoilt little bastard….I’ll swap yer?”_

_“Fuck off Alb”._

_“Howay lad…I’ll stand yer a pint later….”_

_The cage reaches the surface and they both step inside._

OoO

John finds him, trapped against the tunnel wall, his legs pinned down by a rock fall. John’s gut roils again at the distinctive smell of burnt human flesh, every inch of him not covered by the rocks has been beaten by the flames. It’s bad, beyond hope, and it doesn’t take a Guide to know that as Albert’s chest heaves with the effort it takes just to breathe, and all John can do is sit with him silently, taking his old hand in John’s own filthy palm as he feels Alb’s life slip away.

John feels a knot of cold hard fury settle in his gut.

What fucking use is he anyway?

He can’t heal them, fucking hell, he can’t even help himself.

Wave after desperate wave of empathy pours out of him but Albert dies anyway as John knows he will, forty-three years down the pit and this is how it ends and all because of those selfish bastards at Bamburgh.

Because John knows this is their fault, the alarms should have sounded at the very first hint of a gas blast.

Only one thing causes them to fail : power diversion to the castle.

The warning siren blasts out into the silence.

Too fucking late.

John shuts his eyes and leans back against the hard tunnel wall, exhausted as if he hasn’t slept for days and waits for someone else to do the saving this time.

He never wanted this life, wishes he could cut it right out and bury it here in the depths of the mine forever.

Being born a Guide is a curse and no-one will ever convince him otherwise.

He can hear them now, the sound of their voices piercing through him to fill up every part of him.

_“John!”_

_“Where’s John Watson?”_

_“Where’s the Guide?”_

_“Help me John”._

_“Help me John”._

_“Save me”._

He knows he can’t help them.

He can’t help anyone.

John presses his hands against his ears and screams.

OoO

“Ah fuck!” John hisses as the cotton swap drags over his raw, blistered skin.

“Sorry John, I know it hurts but I have to get the coal dust out first”.

Doctor Stamford tosses the dirty black swap into a bin at his side, reaches for another and soaks the clean cotton in an alcohol solution. Christ it stings, John winces, but he grits his teeth and grips the edges of the table where he sits. This all seems fucking pointless to him, surely a shower would have made more sense before they started this torture.

Harry stands in the corridor outside, waiting, John can see her blurred outline in the frosted glass panel of the door.

A weak shaft of sunlight falls across his chest; it isn’t even mid-morning yet.

“John…” Doctor Stamford begins, and John can feel his hackles rise in response because he knows what’s coming, the same speech every time, but what makes it worse is that the Doctor is right this time and John knows it.

“No” John says stubbornly and crosses his arms with an air of finality. But Graham Stamford is used to this tactic, John’s excuses and defensiveness, and so he takes a deep breath and continues.

“I could train you John, in the clinic here with Mike…you’re a bright lad, six months and you’ll be right up to speed…and it wouldn’t cost your mother a penny…if that’s what you’re worried about”. He looks up at John hopefully.

“No”, John says again, more firmly, “What the fuck is the point?…Guides can’t be doctors…I wouldn’t get past the medical let alone the induction”.

“That’s not what I’m suggesting”, Doctor Stamford stutters awkwardly.

“You think I don’t know that?”, John huffs, incredulous. “Nurse…you mean nurse. I know right? How dare my weak addled Guide brain expect anything more!” He’s shouting now.

Doesn’t care who hears him.

Doctor Stamford yells back. “And you call this more? Risking your life every day down that godforsaken pit while your mother worries herself into an early grave? She’s already lost your dad John, it would kill her to lose you too”.

John twitches guiltily, but he knows his father at least would take his side in this. John doesn’t need a fucking Sentinel, doesn’t want or need a bond and all the ridiculous out-dated shit that goes with it. John is his own man, Guide or not just like his father was and he’ll be damned if he’ll be subordinate to some arrogant Sentinel prick even if there were any left in the North. He knows he’s better off than those poor captive bastards in the South, torn from their families and force-bonded by the Tower, every facet of their lives controlled. Doctor Stamford doesn’t understand. That’s why the family moved here all those years back for fuck’s sake, to get away from all that elitist bullshit.

But every brush with death down the mine makes even those reasons seem selfish and weak. Harry and his mother need him. And he can’t be lucky every time, playing Russian roulette with his life down a coal-mine.

Eighteen men and four ponies dead this time, twenty injured.

“Just give it some thought….for your mother’s sake John”.

John closes his eyes as Doctor Stamford folds a pad of gauze, presses it lightly against John’s burnt cheek and fixes the edges down with medical tape. He already has a large pad on his shoulder where a shard of rock ripped through it in the blast and he didn’t even notice. Dr Stamford starts in on his injured leg, swabbing the damaged flesh with a dressing soaked in iodine. He picks up the sterile needle and threads it in preparation to begin the row of sutures, flips down the magnifying light and settles on a stool by the bed.

A pulse of pain rips through John’s body at the first touch and his stomach lurches madly like he missed a step going down. He feels a rush of blind panic and his hands fly to his face, he can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe?

Shit, fuck, he claws at his throat and gasps helplessly. White spots appear across his field of vision and he feels it, the very second it happens, when the Shield around his mind is breached.

They can’t do this.

He won’t let them do this.

John struggles desperately against invisible bonds, his chest feels crushed and his lungs are about to burst, a sharp chemical sting fills his senses…

“John? _John!_ …Jesus Christ John what’s wrong?”

Graham Stamford’s panicked voice grows fainter like he’s falling into water, pressure builds in his ears and he now he can’t hear at all…

_“Someone get the crash-cart, he’s having some sort of seizure…”_

Someone screams.

The world goes black… 


	3. Wicked Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full extent of Sherlock's predicament becomes clear as he wakes up a captive in a seemingly impenetrable cell.  
> Greg's loyalty to the Castle is put to the test as the assessment of the prisoner begins.

 

Sherlock wakes and blinks his eyes with difficulty and even this small movement hurts. They feel heavy and sore, gritty and dry like they’re filled full of sand; he rubs at them in irritation, his surroundings taking time to come back into focus. Every single muscle in his body aches and his head feels punch-drunk when he raises it slowly from the completely inadequate wafer-thin pillow. He drops it back down onto the bed with a groan.

Bed, he’s in a bed. Or on it, Sherlock thinks, his brain still fuzzy from the effects of the knock-out juice.

Fucking bastards, Christ, he’d already had his hands tied, what else did they think he would do; one skinny, seventeen year old boy versus four armed guards in fucking riot gear?

They should have put a bullet through his skull.

They are dead men walking now, each and every one of them.

His mouth feels tainted with the sharp tang of salt, overwhelming in its intensity as if the very air around him is saturated with it. The relentless pounding in his ears comes not from the rush of blood around his body as he thinks at first but from the crashing of waves on the rocks and shoreline somewhere close, beyond these prison walls. It’s erratic and disorienting and adds to the swoop of nausea in his gut, his already heightened senses under ceaseless attack as Sherlock struggles to pull himself back to the here, the now, the room he is trapped in and the hard unyielding bed; the bright white light and cotton sheets and an ambient temperature of seventeen degrees Celsius.

The clothes he wears feel too rough on his skin which is beyond hyper-sensitive, and it feels exactly like a swarm of fire-ants are having a rave beneath the epidermis. Sherlock squirms against the mattress and forces his arms to move, grasping the hem of a worn cotton t-shirt which isn’t his own and ripping it over his head. He throws it across the room in disgust, draws up his legs and kicks off the sheets draped over his lower-half for good measure.

Soft cotton pyjama pants sit low on his hips. They itch like hell too but he can tell there is nothing underneath them, not that Sherlock cares if he’s naked, but he’s damned if he’ll give in to the bastards and strip them off too. Because Sherlock knows what they are trying to do and if they think he’ll roll over and play nice, well, let’s just say they wouldn’t be the first to underestimate him.

Sherlock doesn’t play nice.

Ever.

Sherlock doesn’t play at all.

The light is too bright and a low level white noise spills from speakers fixed to the ceiling in each corner of the room, the air hanging heavy with a rich indefinable scent of spice, and Sherlock suspects that any food he is given will be artificially enhanced with fuck knows what too.

Well they can try.

Within seconds he could process each individual component right down where it was produced.

So this is their master plan, the best their tiny imbecilic brains could muster, to flood every sense to try and force him to zone, or at least to make him weak while they work out where his particular _talent_ lies.

They aim to overwhelm him with too much information to process hoping he will choose one path and retreat into his mind to protect himself.

How well and how long he resists the onslaught shows how powerful a Sentinel he is, or so they imagine.

Idiots.

Sherlock doesn’t have one particular talent, or even two, he has _all_ _of them_ , and more, so very much more than their pathetic minds could possibly handle.

Sherlock knows he is rare, a genetic aberration his power still yet to be quantified.

So the answer is low-level torture to chip away at his psyche? Good luck with that, he thinks, much stronger men have tried and failed and he’s been in worse messes before. And this is the last great hope against the might of the Tower?

As the drug wears off and his mind comes back into focus Sherlock tries to assess where he is. The echo of the surf above is filtered through dolerite and sandstone, the aural signature quite distinct to Sherlock’s finely tuned hearing. They are holding him in a castle of which Northumberland has forty-four, spread out across the length and breadth of the county; but only one that he knows of fits this particular profile, Bamburgh Castle, The Castle, the supposed seat of the Northern resistance which Mycroft had warned him of and which Sherlock had chosen to ignore.

Sherlock sits up, a hot coil of anger in his stomach, swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up on unsteady legs. He can take the room in fully now, and it’s better or worse than he expects depending on your point of view, on which side of the glass you stand. Because this is nothing more than a high-tech prison cell with three stark white walls while the fourth is floor to ceiling bullet-proof glass. The bed is small and narrow, firm and more like an examining table than somewhere intended for the purpose of rest, but sleep deprivation will be just another weapon in their arsenal he suspects.

There are no doors and Sherlock scans around the perimeter wondering how the hell they put him in here. His eyes pick up on a thin silvery line a fraction of a millimetre thick cutting through the expanse of glass assessing how much punishment it can take. He knows he can’t break through on his own, but everything they’ve done so far compounds his theory they have no idea how to deal with him. He is an unknown entity, a ticking time-bomb primed to explode and Sherlock realizes it must be true, Mycroft is right. There are no Sentinels left in the North, if there were he would sense them, he’s sure.

Sherlock can see his captors, the men the women in dull grey clothing watching him in their safe little haven behind the glass; every movement he makes, each reaction and response, tapping on their computer screens and gabbling into microphones worn on narrow silver bands around their heads; and so he gathers himself, uses his anger to his own advantage and stalks across the room toward them.

Or he tries to.

His legs feel like rubber and the floor seems to shift beneath his fee at each step.

In a fit of childish petulance he slams his hands against the glass, hard, smirks when the ones closest to him flinch backwards and then he twists his wrists the opposite way and angrily flips them off.

“Fuck you!” he shouts, and slams his shoulder to the glass again and again, every smack sends the adrenaline coursing through his system, and the pain that rips down his arm makes him feel alive; bones grinding and tender flesh bruising.

Sherlock doesn’t care.

He is not some specimen, to be toyed with and experimented on by pitiful, impotent Guides.

 _“Step away from the glass”_ a clipped android voice pours out through the speakers, replacing the annoying static buzz, but Sherlock ignores it, as he ignores any of their attempts to influence behaviour, paces back, and takes a run at it this time. The glass wall shudders violently under the onslaught and an ear-splitting siren rents the air.

 _“Step away from the glass”_ the android voice sounds again, but Sherlock doesn’t stop, just keeps on pushing, pacing back again and again before launching himself forward, over and over ; the wall shudders and he feels a burst of manic laughter in his throat.

The voice makes his anger burn ever more hot and intense, they can’t even speak to him, not one of them has the guts, safe behind their bullet-proof shields staring in at the Sentinel lab-rat. And even though his body screams and he knows this is useless in the end he keeps up the relentless assault.

How they choose to deal with this, with him, may be the key he needs to plan his escape.

He tries to focus through the haze of pain, sees a tall pallid man watching him, impassive. And just beyond, eyes wide in confusion and fear which Sherlock can sense even through the impenetrable barrier, the most powerful Guide in the room. He reaches out toward the dark-haired boy, a tentative push into the turmoil of his mind. The Shield is strong, but not impossibly so, there are secrets locked in this mind and Sherlock means to find out exactly what they are….

OoO

Greg sees the sickening scene unfold from the safety of the observation deck. In growing disbelief he watches as the kid, (because that’s all he is, just a kid), of no more than sixteen, seventeen at the most, launches himself repeatedly at the toughened glass wall. So this is the Sentinel, the Big Bad that has them all running scared? And they are, scared that is, Greg can tell, as the Guides that sit closest to the glass surreptitiously move back as each hit makes the wall shudder violently.

The kid must be strong, his slight build deceptive, but Greg can feel his pain from here, the unforgiving abuse he inflicts upon his own body, his anger visceral.

Greg clenches his hands into fists where they rest before the bank of monitors in front of him. The charts are off the scale. He can barely keep up with the shifting digits, the red and green columns tracking heart-rate, hormone levels for stress response, cortisol, epinephrine, fluctuating wildly at first and then balancing, self-regulating, while the boy still crashes over and over into the barrier.

Is this a conscious process? If so, Christ, he could keep this up for god knows how long.

“Gas him”. Greg hears to his left, in a dispassionate drawl from the same creepy dude from this morning as he stares at the boy breaking himself at every blow with a cold impassive gaze. “Do it!” he repeats more firmly as the technician glances at him nervously, fumbles with the controls and punches in the higher level access code needed to carry out the order. “It’s odourless”. Greg happens to be closest, and the man bends to speak in his ear, some measure of pride in the tone of his voice, in his eagerness to explain, and Greg recoils internally, fights the urge to back away unable to reconcile their status as Guides with the systematic torture he is witnessing here. Because that’s exactly what this has become. “Non- toxic, a harmless soporific….He’ll be out before he even knows it’s in there”. The man smiles in satisfaction and Greg knows that this sick evil bastard is enjoying every second, likely itching for the chance to use his brand new toys.

It makes Greg want to wrap his hands around his scrawny throat and squeeze until his bloodless skin turns blue; and suddenly every single thing John Watson warned him about, every argument he ever made about the Castle and what they really did here, right up until the day when he signed the fucking contract comes back to haunt him.

John never stopped trying to talk him out of it, but Greg didn’t listen and Greg wonders if John hates him now like he does the rest of what John calls, the traitors. They were good mates once, before John’s dad died, before it was a choice between the castle or the coal mine. John made his choice and so did Greg and each thought the other mad at the time, but his mate is the one who was right all along.

He thinks of his dad, heart stabilised for the first time in three years and the boy on the other side of the glass and of god knows what else they plan to do with him, do _to him,_ all because he is different from the rest of them.

Greg knows what his dad would say, John Watson too. Fuck the castle, do your duty as a Guide and help or you’ll never be able to live with yourself otherwise. Sentinel or not this kid is a human being, and he’s young and scared and desperate.

Greg can see the display on the screen as four red columns rapidly change to green. He lifts his head and can see a slight disturbance in the air at the corner of the bright white cell, just underneath the speakers and digital recording devices as the gas floods in. The boy pauses for a second, and his head whips up. Greg can see the vicious lip curl from here and he feels a flash of pride at the sheer defiance of the kid.

He _knows_ , he fucking _knows_ , and that dickhead is wrong, so wrong Greg thinks as the kid turns full circle, glaring at where the gas streams in from all four corners of the room.

“Shouldn’t he be out by now sir? We’ve given him all four tanks”, the technician stammers nervously, and ignoring his question the man hisses into a transmitter he takes from his belt.

“ _Code red, take him down, this is not a drill, I repeat, take the subject down_ ”.

Seconds after the order is given four soldiers in black body armour rush the observation deck, and a panel of the glass on the far right-hand side, the opposite end from the Sentinel slides back into the wall. The boy rushes forward, the gas seeming to have no physical effect on him at all, and it all seems so cruel and ridiculous to Greg, four armed men against one skinny boy. But what is most amazing is the sheer stubborn bravery of the kid, as he kicks out at the first guard and a foot connects with an unprotected area at the juncture of pelvis and thigh. The guard’s leg crumples beneath him but two more duck around the boy and pin his arms from behind. They lift his slight body from the floor and his legs kick out madly while the fourth and final guard takes a cylinder from a pocket in his armoured vest, opens it and pulls out a syringe filled with a bright orange liquid. Greg can make out through the glass the intense tirade of creative profanity issuing forth from the captive boys mouth. With his wrists now bound again with a whorl of thin black cable- ties, one of the guards at his back moves forward to secure him at the ankles. Greg feels a stab of triumph and satisfaction as the bastard gets a kick to the face for his troubles, but he knows the boy can’t keep this up for very much longer. The gas still pours in in a relentless invisible stream and all the guards are wearing breathing gear and masks over nose and mouth. The kicks grow weaker as Greg watches, enough that the guard can get the thin plastic wires around his ankles too, they bundle him onto the floor, face down and one cunt straddles him and sits heavily across his arse. The syringe is passed across, the kids pants are yanked down and it plunges with finality into the plush white cheek of his arse.

They give it a count of ten before the guard gets up off of his prone, still body and then one of them lifts him easily from the floor, picks him up like a rag doll and unceremoniously dumps him on top of the bed.

As an afterthought one of the guards rolls him off his back and onto his side. It wouldn’t do to have the prisoner choke on his own vomit before they can torture him again.

The whole thing takes minutes, but to Greg it seems like hours; and this is what they expect from him now, to look on impassively and just let this shit happen? Mindless obedience from an invisible overlord, who hides in the shadows and pretends this is all for some fucked-up concept of the common good?

What the hell is he doing here, who even is he anymore if he takes part in this?

Greg feels a bone-deep shame that he is even involved in any capacity at all, watching such barbarity and doing nothing whatsoever to help. His dad would be, will be, ashamed if he ever finds out he was a part of this, even though he’s here by an order from on high.

“Let me know when he wakes…. We may have to change our approach, the subject is uncooperative and volatile”.

You don’t say, you fucking bastard, Greg thinks.

Fuck this, fuck them all.

There is nothing left to see. The boy lies motionless, looking broken and young and vulnerable, his mouth hanging open in sleep.

They file out of the room in silence and only a skeleton staff remains to keep watch over the drugged and bound-up Sentinel.

“Be down here at eight o’ clock sharp”, the man barks at Greg and the rest of the assembled staff. “Observation has failed to yield sufficient data, tomorrow we begin phase two, contact and interrogation”. 


	4. Animal Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His Dad knows everything and John knows nothing. John builds den's in the woods with Greg and Mike, he fights with his sister, picks his nose, and refuses to eat his vegetables. He still wets the bed when he's ill or has a nightmare, but he can't be this, not a Guide, not yet. He's only eight, he's not ready, Dad says so and John's Dad knows everything.
> 
> John leaves the clinic and his nightmare's becomes real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous John gets his very own chapter again!  
> I promise it will become easier when the boys finally get together!  
> But first, there's some backstory to cover, and we flashback to when John manifests as a Guide.

 

“Where’s mum?” John asks Harry.

He is dressing by his bed on the ward, discarding the hideous hospital gown that had left him so exposed and cold through the night. He really needs help with it, untying the ribbons that hold it together in the back, but his stubborn pride won’t let him, and his sister hasn’t seen him naked since John hit puberty six years ago, and he’s not about to forego his privacy now. The cock jokes would be endless and he feels embarrassed enough.

The stiches in the wound on his shoulder pull with every movement as he steps out of the gown, and picks up the shirt, eases his bad arm in first and fumbles the buttons one-handed. The jeans are next, rough denim scrapes over the edges of the bandage covering the stiches that hold his mangled shin together.

“Talking to Dr Stamford”, Harry calls, from where she sits with her feet up on the bed opposite his, pulling apart a cardboard sick bowl and scattering the pieces like confetti on the floor. “It’s stuff about your sick leave”, she adds, bored, “and keeping you in here for another day or two”.

“Fuck that”, John hisses, easing one foot in, injured leg first. The rough denim catches on the edge of the dressing and rips at the hair on his shin. “How the hell does she think we’ll pay the bills this month? I’ll be on half wages, and you know that’s not enough Harry”.

“I know….I tried to tell her John, honestly”.

John can tell she’s lying, he doubts if Harry was at home last night at all. Not that he can blame her. Witnessing your brother have a seizure after an accident is the perfect excuse to go out and get smashed. She’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, wine stained and crumpled, her eyes are bloodshot and smudged dark from lack of sleep and she looks worse than he does too.

The difference being John feels like he’s just been run over, or caught in blast a mile underground.

And oh yes, so he has. Funny that.

The door to the ward springs open and the impatient click of worn down high heels on tiled floor come closer and his mum rips the flimsy curtain aside.

“Christ mum do you have to?”

“John”, she says ignoring his attempts to yank back the curtain and also the fact his pants are still round his ankles, she waves a small green slip of paper in his face, “Two weeks, Dr Stamford says, no arguments”. She looks determined even as John reaches for the sick note, snatches it from her hand and tears it down the middle.

“Not going to happen”, he answers stubbornly, dropping the pieces in the bin by the bed.

“But you almost _died_ John, you need bed-rest, no stress, at least until the stitches come out Dr Stamford said”.

“As if that’s going to happen. Did you switch on the generator?” She stares at him blankly. “When the power went off?”, he asks again more impatiently, “For god’s sake mum, did you check the fridge this morning?”

“Well I didn’t….think”

“And what about you?”, he rounds on a startled Harry too. “Exactly. Just what I thought”, he snaps, “Because you both expect me to do the thinking for everyone, you and Harry, and I can’t stay off work, the clean- up starts on Monday”, he adds defiantly.

“And what the hell use will you be, for god’s sake John look at the mess you’re in. You are not going back down there…..Debbie Lestrade says her Greg is doing well”.

“Don’t you dare”, he snaps, brushing aside this unsubtle segue and pulling on his jeans with even more urgency.

He has to get out of here.

Right now.

“But think of the extra money John”.

“We’re doing fine mum”.

He hates the lie even as he says it. His wages are barely enough to cover basic living expenses. The house is in dire need of repair. The roof leaks, the bedrooms are damp, the ancient carpets, left over from the previous tenant are worn through in places and only one ring works on the cooker. And just to add to their problems, an entire freezer full of food needs to be cooked or binned immediately, or there’ll be nothing to eat either. And there’s no way he’ll go begging to the food bank. He’d sooner starve.

Dr Stamford looks resigned and completely unsurprised when minutes later John hobbles into his consulting room alone, his mother having been unceremoniously banned from coming in with him after her outburst.

“Tell me it was nothing”, John says as he sits down on the chair by the desk, “Or at least tell mum before she drives me round the fucking bend”.

Graham sighs, pulls his glasses off, places them on the desk and scrubs his hand across his face, “I’m sorry I wish I could. I know you don’t want to hear it John, but a Guide of your calibre needs specialist training, or I cannot guarantee this won’t happen again. There’s no doubt the stress caused by the accident was directly to blame for the subsequent seizure. Now we know if you’d been bonded….”

“Oh right, and who would that be to?” John interrupts, the anger that lies just below the surface these days sparking into life. “ You can’t walk down the street these days without falling over all the damn Sentinels. Oh no, sorry, my mistake, the last one died while I was still shitting in my pants”.

“Will you please calm down John, I understand the position you’re in and as your doctor it’s my duty to point out all your options”.

“Oh yeah?....And what are my _options_ , exactly?”

Graham Stamford hesitates before answering, he knows John is standing on a knife edge right now, and what he says next is likely to tip him over.“Bamburgh could help hone your skills without the need to bond, teach you to control the empathetic impulse…..you’re very gifted John, it could be a good move for you _and_ for your family”.

“Oh god, not you as well” John can feel the anger bubbling up within him, a hot, leaden lump in his chest that makes it harder to breathe. His head hurts and his legs throbs, and he’s so sick and tired of all this.

“We only have your best interests at heart, your mother and I”.

“My best interests? Even with the extra money they wouldn’t last a month if I leave, there’d be no bloody home to come back to”.

“You can’t avoid this forever John”.

“Just watch me”, he snaps venomously, and pushes up from the chair, wincing as his leg threatens to fold; he grabs at the edge of the desk to steady himself. His body always seems to betray him, it’s maddening and embarrassing.

“You have to get help, and soon John, surely you can see that…..your episodes are significantly worse each time they happen and soon will come the day when the medication won’t help you anymore”. And then he goes for John’s weak spot. “You’re putting your colleagues in danger John, if this were to happen underground….” He leaves the sentence unfinished.

John freezes, “And how the hell do you know about that….these ‘episodes’, or whatever the hell you just called them?”

But John already knows the answer, he blanked out for two hours at a house party the previous weekend. Everyone thought he was pissed and Mike Stamford had helped him into an empty bed to sleep it off, supposedly. He must have told his dad. And that wasn’t even the first time it had happened this month alone, he’d woken in the bath a few times just at the point where his head had begun to slip underneath the surface, coughing soapy water over the side onto the floor. Mike would only have been worried for him, but in his heightened state, his anger, John can only see his friend’s concern as betrayal, and his doctor’s advice as interference.

There is no-one left he can trust, not anymore.

Not even his closest friends and family.

They all want to sell him out to the Castle.

The ache in his chest that he keeps suppressed for the most part returns in earnest.

God he needs his dad right now, he would understand, tell the doc to go to hell, pull Harry in line and make his mum smile again.

John can’t do any of those things, no-one listens to him, not like he did.

John knows he used to complain, quite vocally, when every Sunday morning dad would knock him out of bed at nine when really, he’d wanted to burrow in a nice warm pit of blankets like any normal teenager on a weekend.

“Come on son, there’s a trout in that river with your name on t’day, get yersell out of bed kid, we’re wasting daylight here”.

And they would spend the day in wader’s together, standing in the middle of the Coquet near the bridge at Warkworth, dad at his back in case he lost his footing on the silty riverbed as the currents rippled around them, while he flicked the rod back and forth to cast his line upstream. Mum would moan about the waste of precious petrol to drive ten miles up the coast road for a bunch of filthy wet clothes, rub ointment into the chilblains on his fingers and then gut and fillet the catch of river trout that tasted distinctly of mud, and that everyone hated anyway. But it was nice just to get away for the day, out into the open country. No noise, no people no complex swirl of emotions. John could see the tension visibly drain from his dad’s face as they sat on the grassy bank munching squashed cheese sandwiches and sipping warm lager- shandy. He learned about what his future would be on those lazy afternoons, the pressures on a Guide, how to be strong and to protect himself, how to shield his mind from the outpouring of painful emotions that came from simply being _near_ other people.

The memories are still so vivid, so real.

Especially the day that it happened, nine years ago.

 

OoO

 

_John doesn’t feel well today. His tummy aches and his head feels a bit hot when he touches the back of his hand to it, like mummy does when he or Harry are ill. The early summer sun is unusually hot today, the sky a cloudless blue like it rarely ever is this close to the coast. It’s break-time and the whole school runs riot around the grounds. John and Greg are on the playing field throwing handfuls of dried grass cuttings at each other. It sticks in John’s hair and the dust and pollen make him sneeze._

_“Races”, shouts Greg, “Last one there’s a mouldy cheese”. And he sets off running, hard, pounding down the length of the field._

_John does his best to catch him, but Greg’s two years older and he’s tall and strong and much too fast. His friend slows a little as he passes by a group of girls sitting cross-legged, weaving daisy-chains into each-others hair. They giggle and Greg winks. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing, just knows that’s what the older boys do when they’re not playing football, like they’re doing now, with rolled-up jumpers for goal posts._

_Greg streaks ahead again, black hair gleaming in the sun, flashes of golden tanned skin in worn grey shorts and a grubby yellow t-shirt. John is slower than usual today, he can feel his pulse thudding loud in his ears and throat, his lungs feel too small and he struggles to suck in a breath. But still he’s determined, and pumps his arms, willing his body to move faster._

_Greg wins easily, crashing against the high mesh fence at the bottom of the field where it backs onto old Mr Summer’s cottage. The old man scowls at him from where he is stooped over rose bushes in his garden. Greg just sticks his tongue out cheekily and then turns his back and leans against the wire._

_No one likes the old man, he never throws the ball back if someone kicks it over the top by accident._

_Greg is fully recovered by the time John catches up, panting and breathless. He flops down onto the grass breathing hard._

_Greg sits down beside him and pokes him in the ribs, “Urgh you stink, smelly cheese, smelly cheese”._

_John squirms away and rolls over on his side. He feels dizzy and there’s water in his mouth. He spits it out before vomiting copiously onto the grass._

_“John?” Greg sounds scared._

_John whimpers and tries to hide his face. He can feel hot tears of shame burning in his eyes, he hates it, being sick and now he’s done it in front of everyone. He’s scared and he wants his mum to hold his hand, and rub his back in soothing circles and tell him it’s fine, he’s fine._

_“John?” Greg hovers nervously, crawls closer to his friend on his hands and knees. And then he feels a palm, warm and steady between his shoulder blades, the touch makes him almost sob in relief. It’s not mum, or dad but it’s something, it’s nice. He makes a grab for the other hand and finds a bony knee instead, and then he squeezes it, digging his fingers into flesh as another wave of nausea washes over him. His face feels like it’s burning and he’s sure his whole stomach wants to climb up his throat and out his mouth onto the grass._

_“Miss!...Miss!”, Greg shouts, a little panicked for the teacher Miss Morley who is chatting with Emily and Sarah while they plait each-others hair. “John threw up Miss, please Miss”, Greg shouts a little louder, drawing a small audience._

_John tries to shake his head and groans. He doesn’t want everyone to stare at him, and he can hear them, whispering, feel their curiosity and disgust even as he struggles._

_Miss Morley jogs down the field towards them and John is almost face down on the grass by now. A shaft of bright sunlight turns her skirt transparent and John thinks Greg must really be worried because he doesn’t make a joke about the colour of her knickers this time. White, pink spots. The teacher crouches down beside them, places a hand on the top of his arm._

_No, John thinks. This is wrong, this is….He doesn’t know. He’s not in his body anymore, John doesn’t know where he is, but it’s bright and red and there’s shadows and lights that flash blue, and Miss Morley is two people. She’s a boy and a girl. No, that’s wrong. John tries to shake his head. He can feel what she feels, concern, confusion, helplessness and guilt and the tiny little beat of a second human consciousness separate from her own._

_A gasp tears from his mouth and he wriggles away from her touch, panicked, and struggling to his feet he clutches at his stomach and runs towards the old banana slide and crawls underneath into the dank, musty darkness. He hears someone following and peeks out to see, but it’s only Greg again who flashes him a grin and climbs up onto the bottom of the slide above him, standing guard against intruders._

_He wants to be left alone, Greg knows, he just does, that’s why they’re best friends despite the two year age gap. But his friend has questions too, John can tell._

_“Miss Morley’s going to have a baby and she’s scared”, he says hiccupping. “It’s a boy baby, and no one’s supposed to know”, he adds, and falls silent again, waiting for Greg’s reaction. Two hands appear around the slide of the slide and Greg’s face appears between them, peering at him upside down._

_Greg looks at him, something like awe in his expression. “My Gran does that too John. Wow, that’s so cool. Puts her hands on the women’s bellies and tells them if it’s a girl or a boy. She’s a Guide and a midwife, helps the babies be borned too”._

_John squeaks in alarm. “I don’t want to help babies be born”, he whines , horrified at the thought of touching girls_ down there.

_Greg just chuckles. “Don’t be daft, there’s men Guides too like your Dad, you’d be like him, helping people when they’re upset and stuff”._

_John’s tears start afresh and Greg brow wrinkles, unsure what he’s said that’s upset his friend. John doesn’t even know himself. He always thought it would be cool to be a Guide like his Dad, because he’s special, the best Dad ever and everyone in the village knows and respects David Watson. John knows what he does. He sits with the old people when they’re lonely, sick or dying. Calms pounding hearts and pushes back the fear and panic until they can smile again even though it makes his Dad sad for a long time afterwards._

_The crying subsides to wet, snotty sniffles by the time Dad arrives. Break time ended ages ago and the teachers have ushered the other kids back inside the school. But Greg refuses to leave him and so he’s still there when Dad comes.“John’s a Guide Mr Watson” he announces like it’s the best news ever. John’s Dad raises an eyebrow at him and ducks his head down beneath the faded blue plastic. John is hunched in a ball, knees hugged in to his chest, and his Dad reaches a hand out gently, toward him. Fingers brush along his face, trailing across damp cheeks._

_“Where does it hurt son?”, he says softly, as if he knows, because he does know, John thinks. He’s been through this too._

_“Everywhere Dad, inside too, I feel all funny Dad…please make it stop now Dad, make it go away”._

_“Listen to me John, look at me son, you’ll be fine I’ve got you now, let’s go home”._

_His parents row that night._

_It wakes him up and he crawls out of bed and sits on the top stair to listen. They are shouting at each other now and that always upsets him, and so it’s almost a relief when Harry comes out too. She flops down beside him and puts an arm around his shoulder. It’s an uncharacteristic display of sibling solidarity. John knows it won’t last. They’ve never got on. But it’s nice to pretend they do sometimes._

_“How did we not see this coming David, how?” his mum asks, “This isn’t supposed to happen yet he’s only eight years old, he’s still just a baby”._

_Dad paces back and forth, John can hear the floorboards creak as he walks. “You think I don’t know that?” he says, voice trembling, “I thought we’d have years yet, to ease him into it. I’ve never known it come out of the blue like this. He’s strong Ange, I can feel it, stronger than I am, stronger than any Guide I’ve ever come across. I could feel it crackling on his skin, the raw power, just from a touch. Oh God”._

_His Dad sounds muffled and John knows he’s covered his face with his hands._

_“I don’t know how to do this Ange, I don’ know how to deal with him”._

_No. That can’t be right. His Dad knows everything and John knows nothing. John builds den’s in the woods with Greg and Mike, he fights with his sister, picks his nose, and refuses to eat his vegetables. He still wets the bed when he’s ill or has a nightmare, but he can’t be this, not a Guide, not yet. He’s not ready, Dad said so and John’s Dad knows everything._

_“Hey there little man”._

_John is slumped on the landing. Harry isn’t there anymore, she must have lost interest and gone back to bed. Dad scoops him up in safe strong arms, as if nothing is wrong carries him back to his room and tucks him snugly back under the covers. It’s warm and safe, and John can almost forget._

_He’s someone else now._

_He’ll never just be John Watson again._

_“Can we get a dog Dad?”, he asks, just before his eyes close. It’s a very important question but he can’t explain why._

_“Maybe ”, Dad says sadly, kissing his brow. “Go back to sleep now, son”._

 

OoO

 

Luck had been on John’s side yesterday in that black gaping maw beneath the earth. His Dad not so much, crushed by a rock-fall in a side-tunnel while helping a young apprentice to safety after yet another gas blast. The boy had lived, protected by Dad’s body as they both were hurled face down onto the tunnel floor. Two years ago. Before John turned sixteen and made his choice to live his life on his own terms; before the nightmares and the sickness and the things reaching out in the dark for him when he closed his eyes in bed; and the blackouts.

Grief, Dr Stamford said, post- traumatic stress. John knows that it’s not. This is something else, something entirely different.

John took the pills at first to please his Mum and get everyone off his back, but he hasn’t touched them for months now, they make him feel numb, dead inside, fuzzy-headed, a barely functioning shell. Generic anti-depressants, mood enhancing SNRI’S, like he needs to be fixed, cured.

As if there’s something wrong with him.

Harry has disappeared to god knows where again, so John is left to the mercy of his Mum, spouting inanity in an incessant stream that he barely registers for the entire walk home. It’s a blessedly short journey. They barely live a quarter of a mile from the pit-head, but still John’s leg throbs as he hobbles on a borrowed metal cane. The black plastic handle slips repeatedly in his sweaty hand. It’s on loan for a week from the geriatric ward of the clinic.

As if John doesn’t feel helpless enough.

John wrestles the front door open and heads straight toward the cupboard in the hall. He yanks out four of their oldest threadbare towels from the stack, limps back to the kitchen and dumps them on the floor by the fridge. He leans his cane against the kitchen bench and spreads the towels over the pool, seeping slowly out from under the fridge.

“What on earth are you doing?”, his mum asks confused.

It’s always like this, John thinks ignoring her again. But what he fails to ignore is the stack of dirty dishes and the musty smelling clothes lying damp in the washing machine. He flips the switch on the wall that connects to the solar panels at the bottom of the garden; if this had been done when the main power cut out they wouldn’t be faced with a flood and ruined food supply. Just one bloody day, that’s all it took for the house to go to hell. And after all that talk in the hospital about bed rest and taking it easy for a while, his mum doesn’t even offer to help as John drags bags of soggy vegetable from the freezer, dumps the meat in the bin and fills the kitchen sink with water. He salvages what he can, bulked out with rice from the cupboard all cooked in a large aluminium pan on the cooker-top. Mum goes out around nine for her late shift at the care home, and at half-past eleven dosed-up with painkillers John heads up the stairs to bed alone.

The room is cold and a weak light filters in through the window as he gazes down into the garden below. It’s so quiet tonight. The mine won’t run a shift until Monday at the earliest and without the pervading background noise of the winding gear and the ancient buses bringing the men in from town the silence is eerie and unsettling. His hand grasps the edge of the curtain to pull it across the window, and there in the corner of his eye he sees something hidden in the shadows. His heart starts to thump too fast in his chest, and holding his breath John presses his face to the glass.

A flash of a paw, a streak of dark fur, the glass clouds from a shaky exhale and he rubs it away with the back of his arm.

Feeling jumpy after the accident is a perfectly natural reaction. It’s just a stupid cat, he thinks, it has to be either that or a dog. Then just as he turns, he sees it again, huge paws, thick tail, as the dog steps out of the shadows and stands in the middle of the garden, smacking it’s jaws together and staring up at him curiously. It can see him, through the glass, yellow eyes like pinpoints of light in the darkness.

John cracks open the window. He hasn’t seen this animal before, but he knows a few new families moved in recently across the road and perhaps the dog has just picked the wrong house.

“Bugger off, go home”, he yells hoarsely, trying to keep his voice down, but instead of moving the animal sits down on his haunches and cocks it head to one side, watching him. That wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. A large pink tongue snakes out as the dog extends its jaw in an ear-splitting yawn. It has a mouth full of sharp white teeth, the canine’s at the front disconcertingly large.

Shit.

John yanks the curtain across and leans with his back against the sill, breathing hard. It’s not a bloody dog it’s a giant bloody wolf. But it can’t be, John knows that, there aren’t supposed to be any native wolves in England now. You hear stories of course from people who have been in the forests at Kielder or the Cheviot hills, but never in the towns and villages, not this close to the villages and towns.

He risks a small peek again, turning his head just a little to see through the gap.

It’s gone, the garden is empty again with no sign of there ever having been anything down there at all. Just the ragged, patchy square of lawn that needs mowing and a stack of old plant pots on top of the old brick coal bunker. The gate is closed, the neighbour’s gardens empty too. John sees his own reflection stare back at him in wide-eyed relief and he draws the curtains across and turns away feeling a little ridiculous. Those pain meds must be stronger than he thinks is all, if they can conjure up a hound of hell from his twisted subconscious.

John is restless that night, sleep comes in fitful bursts and he wakes up frequently with his legs tangled in the sheets, sweating, stiff from the effort it takes not to roll onto his injured shoulder. Whichever way he chooses hurts and lying on his back makes him feel like he can’t breathe, the leaden weight still pressing on his chest, like he’s trapped somehow, held down against his will.

The fourth time he wakes has nothing to do with discomfort though, and everything to do with a cold trickle of fear that has every hair on his body erupting in gooseflesh.

He’s not alone.

John pants in the darkness, trying to hear through the pounding of his heart and the once familiar creaks and groans from the building as it settles in the cool of the night. He swallows, his mouth bone dry and the sound unnaturally loud in his ears.

There is a noise that doesn’t quite belong in here and he strains to pick it out.

If someone were here he would feel it, that pulse of life, the blood, the complex play of emotions. But John can hear nothing except the steady rhythmic tick of the clock in the hallway, the hum of the generator and his own rapid, shallow breaths.

“Who’s there?” he calls cautiously, just to make sure even though he feels a fool, talking to himself in an empty house.

He casts his eyes nervously around the silent bedroom, over the wardrobe, the desk in the corner, the tall chest of drawers and the battered old trunk that he uses as a bedside table.

Nothing has moved nothing has changed at all.

The curtain ripples slightly despite John having closed the window. Just a draught he thinks, tugging at the edge of the blankets again and pulling them further up his chest, but he still can’t shake the creeping sense of unease.

A low rumble sounds from the foot of the bed.

John stills, not even breathing now, lungs bursting with the strain to stay silent. Again, it seems to echo through the darkness, hidden just beyond his sight, a raw animal growl, deep and guttural, here, right here in his room, the wolf, it knows , it’s come for him.

John really can’t breathe now. His fingers are stiff where they grip the edge of the covers and he slowly, slowly draws his legs up, away from the edge, away from whatever the hell is down there. This is a dream it has to be, some post-traumatic drug induced nightmare, that visceral fear of the dark and unknown, taunting him after the horrors of the day before.

Maybe it will go if he closes his eyes, wills it away and remembers how to breathe again. Maybe he will sleep and none of this will be happening, he’ll wake up tomorrow and laugh at his own stupidity.

John is torn between seeing and not seeing, between what is real and what cannot possibly be true. Never, since the day he manifested has he been so unsure of his own perceptions, and it makes him feel so impossibly weak and vulnerable, held together by neat nylon stitches and his own stubborn refusal to die in a filthy dark hole in the ground.

He squeezes his eyes shut feeling like a coward and wills his body to calm. Suck in a breath hold for three, exhale slowly to the count of four, in and out.

The bed dips low just below his feet and his eyes snap open. The wooden frame gives an ominous creak straining to hold the weight of the beast as it leaps onto the bed beside him. He can feel the heat of it through the bedclothes, the warm blood pumping, hot heavy breath against his face and the raw animal stink of it, musky unwashed fur and damp earth. It is real, so real, and impossibly here, in his room and on his bed now. Breath snorts through a rough wet snout as the animal sniffs at him cautiously. John holds very still. Brilliant yellow orbs stare into his eyes, he should be scared and he knows that somewhere in his hindbrain some innate sense of self-preservation should have kicked in by now.

Fight or flight, isn’t that how it goes?

One press of those sharp teeth at his throat and John will be gone. He can’t fight this even if he tried, death drips from every pour of this beast and John knows he would dangle like a ragdoll in its jaws at the slightest attempt to resist its presence.

But there’s something achingly familiar here that banishes any fear he might feel, the whisper of a memory long forgotten, and the ache of loneliness John has carried since he was eight years old loosens something tight within him and he knows. He knows.

A hot wet tongue licks a stripe across his cheek , and the wolf settles down on the bed beside the boy.

His boy.

John feels the heavy weight of it, a large head on his chest, a solid presence pressing into his side.

This is part of him, this beast, it always has been.

It is time.

He’s been found.

John sleeps.


	5. Mind Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His life is of no consequence. The boy could crush him like a fly, wrap his hands around Greg's throat, and slowly drain the life from him, and all they will do is watch, make notes, collect data...then haul him out in a body bag later....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me so much trouble goddammit - apologies for any bumpy prose or dialogue, it's been a rough week.

 

“You lucky bastard, wish it was me”, Murray says the next morning, as he bites off a hunk of toast and jam and splatters the top of the mess table with sticky red and yellow droplets.

Greg fights back the growing swell of nausea in his gut and stares into the bottom of his half-finished mug of coffee, the thought of food makes him sick and his hands shake from lack of food and sleep. All night he lay awake, with the image of the Sentinel at the forefront of his consciousness. He doesn’t know how much he can tell his mate, if anything, doesn’t think he can trust anyone in this hell-hole ever again. Still, he is painfully aware as ears prick up around the mess- room, word of his ‘promotion’ and place on the assessment team has already filtered down to the rest of the interns. Maybe if their positions were reversed he would feel the same perverse curiosity as Bill.

Everyone knows, the whole castle is abuzz. Drinks were passed around to celebrate the night before and the rumour-mill is already in full flow although much of the speculation is way off target. Greg had been so exhausted, he’d simply crawled into his bunk and stayed there pretending to sleep, even though he lay awake until well into the early hours of the morning.

Greg’s entire existence is a pretense these days.

“So”, Murray asks, oblivious, “What is he like, the Sentinel?”

“Why do you assume he's male?” Greg answers, admittedly curious to know Bill’s answer.

“Well, I dunno, makes sense, they’re supposed to be top dog aren’t they, dominant and shit….badass power junkies…has to be a bloke don’t ya think?”

Greg shrugs, “Nah mate, you never met my Grandma did you, shit man, she would fuck you up bad for just talking back and she was a Guide and a mid-wife too”.

Murray looks thoughtful, but mildly disappointed with the lack of information, and Greg thinks what the hell, this place has done nothing to earn his loyalty not after what they made him witness yesterday, and so he answers, “But yeah mate, you’re right, it is a bloke, but he’s just a kid. Younger than us I think by the look of him”.

“You’re joking?”

“Nope…sixteen if he’s a day, but he kicks like a mule, four on one and then they pumped him with enough Ket to take down a bull…..the odds were stacked mate, he didn’t stand a chance”.

“Jesus Christ”, Bill whistles, “I would’ve given my right arm to see that shit go down”.

Greg pushes back from the table, sick to his stomach and sick of this conversation. The longing in the eyes of his friends, eager for the gory details.

“No Bill, believe me, if you’d seen what they did, the way they treat him like a fucking caged animal, a rabid dog….anyone would’ve reacted like he did, and put it this way, at least I know who the real animals are now ”.

Bill stares at him slack-jawed and Greg realizes too late, he must have shouted that last bit, the room falling silent around him. He gets to his feet and slams the chair back underneath the table, the conversation in the room dropping down to a wide-eyed muttering, and he feels every pair of eyes track him across the room until he reaches the airlock, presses the button, passes through without looking back and collapses against the wall of the corridor outside.

His heart pounds loud and fast in his ears and Greg doesn’t think he has the strength to go back down there, but the display on the wall says ten minutes to eight, so he forces himself to move, put one foot in front of the other, and it feels like walking to his death as every step he takes rips a piece from his soul and brings him closer and closer to the observation deck.

OoO

“Good morning, gentleman….ladies”, the man adds belatedly, nodding to the token two girls standing awkwardly together as they all wait in a line to file inside the room.

They are deep in the heart of the castle here, lower down even than the dorms and the tunnels and Greg works his jaw as his ears pop in pain at the alteration in the air pressure.

Ericsson is his name, Greg learns from a flame-haired technician, and he’s the Guide Prime’s second in command. So the orders do come from elsewhere, someone else is watching their every move, but no-one it seems has the faintest idea who the Guide Prime is.

Greg’s main objective for the past three years has been to keep his head down, stay under their radar. That might be impossible now. He feels it to his very core that this is it, the start of something and the Sentinel holds the key to it all. But now, as far as they are concerned the chain of command starts and ends right here with this one sadistic git.

How can he be a Guide and treat a human life with such contempt?

He looks disgustingly happy and it chills Greg to the bone.

They file into the wide bright room in silence as the air-lock slides open, and those already assigned to a duty take their places behind their monitors to replace the exhausted night-crew. The rest of them gather in a group at the back of the room, but he barely listens to the buzz around him, as he checks the stream of data, until his eyes drawn inexorably to the high glass wall and the stark white room beyond.

This data flashing across his screen is a living, breathing human being.

“Lestrade!”.

The girl beside him nudges him sharply to get his attention and he looks up in alarm.

“Join us over here if you would please, Bishop, you can take his place on surveillance”.

Greg rises stiffly from his seat brushing shoulders with the plainly jealous Bishop, a second year intern who sleeps in his dorm.

“The subject has agreed to submit to an initial assessment interview provided it is with a Guide of his choosing”. Ericsson says this through gritted teeth. Apparently the plan is to line up in full sight of the prisoner, and the wall will be opened at the top. It is too high to reach so the Sentinel poses no physical threat, but the breach allows cross-communication, and Ericsson watches Greg’s reaction with interest as he explains what he expects them to do.

This a joke Greg thinks, they’re making this shit up as they go. Yesterday _was_ the plan, and this is just another half-arsed experiment.

The Sentinel sits on the edge of the bed, watching the proceedings with a thinly veiled interest. On being referred to as ‘the subject’ he scowls openly then looks away even though there is no way he should have been able to hear them. A soft digital beep in the background notes the neurological response characteristic of an enhanced sense of hearing.

The boy is still stripped to the waist, but the cable-ties have gone leaving livid red marks around his ankles and wrists where they pulled too tight and the plastic bit harshly into soft pale skin. He seems unconcerned though, swinging his feet loosely crossed at the ankle as he rubs, absently, at an intricate tattoo Greg had barely registered yesterday that curls around the top of his left arm. He can’t see it properly from here, the spiralling vibrant design disappears across his shoulder and up into the hairline at the nape of his neck.

A tribal emblem?

Some Sentinel initiation rite?

Who would mark someone so young, and why?

Sentinels are territorial by nature, but he’s far from his territory here.

Whatever the reason he carries it, whatever it is Greg thinks, there are hours of painstaking artistry there, infinite patience, and a hell of a lot of pain in the application. The end result is stunning. What he wouldn’t give for a close-up view.

As if the Sentinel hears Greg’s thoughts he jumps down from the bed onto the floor, and Greg can see the markings in close proximity, the lick of vibrant orange flames, the iridescent glint of reptilian scales and the obvious strength in his deceptively slight frame. He stalks around the room like a tiger in a cage, lean defined muscles coiled, bristling with violent potential, every movement suffused with the crackle of a raw kinetic energy. The danger and power in his body is palpable, tall and thin as if yet to grow into his own skin, a mess of crazy dark curls, bright feline eyes and a wide full mouth.

Close-to he looks older than Greg had originally thought, but that could be down to the confident way he stalks around the room, turns on his heel and paces back with unnerving speed toward them, his head cocked to one side and his eyes narrowed. He stops at what seems mere inches from them all, slams his hands against the glass and leans forward into it, right in front of Greg’s face. His biceps flex with the movement, sinuous and firm and the muscles of his abdomen tighten, as he pushes off and steps back a pace again still staring at him intently. Greg tries not to flinch, meets the boy’s eyes and glares right back, but then it’s over and he moves off again, walking down the line of trembling Guides, hips swaying with every step, as his fingers trail along the glass taking in each face he passes.

His eyes are calculating and knowing, deeply intelligent and penetrating. A hunter, hunting and they are the prey despite the impenetrable bullet-proof shield. Being this side of the barrier offers no protection for any of them.

Ericsson looks furious as if even this small concession in the Castle’s bid for dominance causes actual physical pain. It makes Greg wonder who’s really in control here. As if all the safety protocols at the Castle’s disposal are inadequate to deal with this pure force of nature.

The thought is both incredible and terrifying.

And then Greg feels it, a definite push at the edge of his consciousness, purposeful and deliberate, butting against his inner shield. The boy swings around abruptly, stalks back along the line and draws to a halt right in front of him again. He is panting slightly this time and the corner of his mouth is turned up at one side, in a crooked parody of a smile that makes Greg’s heart thump madly in his chest. It looks like he wants to _devour_ Greg and he feels his pulse kick even harder in response. The kid is inside his head, he knows, and it is this realization that makes him jerk back with a gasp. No-one breaks this far beyond his Shield.

The Sentinel smiles for real this time and crooks a finger to beckon him forward. “You”, he mouths, confirming all Greg’s fears, his voice indistinct through the glass. But from what he can tell, it’s deep and rich and unnervingly sexy and not anything like he’d imagined.

Shit, he’s in trouble. In more ways than one.

Ericsson, on the other hand looks triumphant, as if this is exactly what they suspect and expected, that Greg has been hiding his power from the Castle all along.

“Well, well, Mr Lestrade…it seems that our most esteemed guest has singled you out for some unfathomable reason. How fortunate for you. Although I do wonder just what it is that has piqued his interest, you having yet to manifest any form of discernible power to date… Hmm?”

Fortunate? Great, he’ll kill that little shit, if he doesn’t kill Greg first, that is. Which is a distinct possibility given his performance yesterday. Greg grits his teeth and the boy looks on faintly amused.

“No idea Sir”.

“Remind me Lestrade”, Ericsson stands before him looking thoughtful, “What is the current penalty for fraudulent concealment?”

Christ no; Immediate dismissal, loss of any and all benefits. They would lose the house foremost then his dad would lose the heart medication, the whole family would be forced out to work, his brothers and sisters out of school.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“By the look on your face you are most painfully aware, and rest assured”, he adds his pallid face much too close, “After our guest has had his fun I will be ordering a rigorous re-testing programme bi-weekly for the foreseeable future. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir”.

Whichever side of the glass, he is a dead man now.

They bring him a suit, light padded body armour a taser and a face-shield and Greg just stares wide-eyed. They’re kidding right he thinks, had the idiots even been here yesterday? If he goes in dressed in full-on riot gear the kid will take him down in a heartbeat and the ‘interrogation’ will be over before it ever begins. Greg isn’t an idiot, he’s handy in a fight but knows he’s no match one-on one for this kid. How could he be? He’s dangerous and everyone knows it. What happened yesterday proved that. But it’s terrifyingly obvious what he needs to do, and he laughs quietly, despite himself.

“Is this now a joke to you Mr Lestrade?”

“No Sir, sorry Sir”.

“Well get on with it, NOW”.

Greg swallows nervously, points to the cell and prays he’s got this right. If not it’ll be the death of him, literally. “I think I should wear the same as him”.

“Surely you are aware that the subject is prone to erratic and immensely violent outbursts – you observed his behaviour yesterday, this is a precautionary measure intended entirely for your own safety Mr Lestrade, it is neither the time nor the place for misguided heroics”.

“It’s just….”, Greg hesitates, knowing how naïve he must sound, “Maybe his reaction was excusable …you know, given the circumstances we’ve sort of put him in?”

“And you think you know better than every single one of your superiors?”

“No, what I mean is, it just makes sense….look, he’ll hardly be in the frame of mind to talk if I go in tooled up like this”. Greg holds up the riot-grade face shield. He won’t even touch the damn taser sitting in a black leather holster that’s meant to clip around his upper body. It’s much too confrontational.

“Oh, and he told you this personally I suppose?”, his superior snarks back to a chorus of nervous snickers from the rest of the room. Greg glares round at them, daring just one of them to look him in the eye and heads are hurriedly buried behind monitors again. They’re just thankful that it’s him and not one of them. Christ he would take the tunnels over this crap a thousand times over. “This is a Sentinel Mr Lestrade, you cannot underestimate him”.

Greg stands his ground and drops the face-shield back on the table. If there’s a punishment for this, he’ll take it. The whole room holds a collective breath, a chorus of bleeps from the monitors let him know this has not gone unnoticed by the Sentinel.

“On your head be it”, Ericsson snaps finally, obviously more eager to get Greg in the cell than he’ll admit, given the sudden lack of resistance to his suggestion. Someone above him is talking in his ear and they want to move things forward now, quickly. He nods curtly to an overseer to remove the protective clothing and weaponry, and to escort Greg back to the dorm room to change.

Outside the airlock which will give him access to the cell he has time to reconsider the wisdom of his decision. Self-consciousness gets the better of him and he folds his arms across his chest in a sudden flush of embarrassment. It had been much too easy in the heat of the moment to forget that a roomful of people will be watching his every move from now. Not that he’s ashamed of his body, quite the opposite, but his state of undress leaves him feeling degraded. But, he tries to remind himself, isn’t that the point?

The air lock door slides open and he shuffles into the room in nothing but a thin pair of blue cotton pyjama bottoms, the standard issue for all staff and interns. The light is so bright it hurts and he squints his eyes a little to compensate for the glare, scans nervously around the space for the Sentinel and sees a pair of bare pale feet, grubby toes wiggling, sticking out beyond the other side of the bed. He approaches carefully. Risks a quick glance to the right to where the others are watching them with thirty pairs of curious eyes, and wishes he hadn’t bothered. Humiliating is an understatement.

He may as well be naked in here. He very nearly is.

“Relax for god’s sake, I don’t bite……much”.

Oh how very reassuring, Greg thinks.

The deep purring voice sounds clearly now from the opposite side of the bed, at floor level just out of sight. It’s like velvet, rich and rumbling. Boredom drips from each perfectly enunciated syllable.

The smooth floor is freezing against the soles of his feet as Greg steps cautiously around the edge of the bed and the boy tilts his head and looks up at him. He’s sitting on the hard cold surface with his legs stretched out in front, his wild curly head pressed back against the edge of the mattress. He seems remarkably unguarded, almost disinterested, but then he has the upper hand now, doesn’t he.

Greg makes a decision, and swallowing his anxiety he crouches at the knee and slides down beside him on his right side, hugs his knees to his chest and rests his chin on top of them. It’s seriously fucking freezing in here and his shame increases threefold as the stiff cool breeze from the air-con in the cell turns his nipples into two stiff peaks.

Bloody brilliant. Just what he needs.

Maybe it’ll shrink his cock too for what it’s worth, Greg thinks shivering, his balls are already trying to climb back inside his body in fear, because no matter what the kid says, or how he projects himself the hostility inside this sterile room is palpable.

Close to, sitting silent and still, his appearance is only slightly less intimidating. Greg can see the dark rings beneath his eyes. Purple smudges under ocean-blue. He is lost for a moment, fascinated by the way they flicker and change when viewed at a slightly different angle, blues and greys, then a flash of bright yellow like sunlight on waves.

He could drown in those eyes.

Greg shakes himself mentally, aware that he is staring quite blatantly and forces his gaze away again. He’s here for information: Why is the boy here, where did he come from, is he alone or are there more of them out there. Is he bonded already and who is his Guide. Focus.

“Nice place you’ve got here”, he ventures in an awkward attempt to break the obvious tension, and chooses that moment to shiver violently again. Jesus Christ its brass monkey’s in here.

“Yes” the boy drawls, “It’s positively five star”.

Greg snorts, “Yeah, anyone would think you were important or something”.

“Quite, how amusing all this must be for you”, the boy scowls and gestures around him. “Come stare at the freak boy in his glass cage”.

Greg’s face flushes hot with shame, remembering too late that this is essentially a prison. This kid didn’t ask to be here and how fucking cruel it is to cage him against his will.

“Except”, says the boy with a smirk, “Now you’re trapped in here with me too”. He fixes Greg with a penetrating stare, “Oh my god, you have no idea do you?”

“About what mate, you’re the one that chose me, remember”, Greg shrugs his shoulders in apology. “Sorry to disappoint you”.

“I am not your _mate_ , and it wasn’t exactly a choice”, the boy snaps back quick as a whip, eyes flashing in contempt.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

The boy widens his eyes in warning, glances up to the gallery above and then drops his gaze down to his lap where his hands begin to fidget roughly with the drawstring on his pants. He shakes his head, an almost imperceptible movement, frustration at his loss of control etched over every feature.

Greg could almost kick himself for being such an idiot. It’s much too easy to forget the intensive level of scrutiny they are subject to.

“They can hear us”.

It wasn’t a question. Just cold, hard reality.

He should have known.

He did know.

Stupid.

Hell, he’d been stuck in front of the monitors on the observation deck for eight hours straight only yesterday. They had visuals, audio feed. If a dust mite sneezed they would hear the damn thing. Get too close to lunch time and he’ll deafen some poor bastard with the noises his stomach makes.

“Obviously”, the boys answers with the most dramatic eye-roll Greg has ever witnessed. “Although Curiosity killed the cat, you know. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

“Right…are we still talking about me then?”

This earns Greg a smile, genuine this time. And seriously, thinks Greg, he should do that more often. It’s dazzling. Though Christ knows he has nothing to smile about stuck in here. But the rage is still there, he reminds himself, bubbling just beneath the surface.

“You are to engage the subject in light conversation Lestrade, open a dialogue, establish oral contact”, the boy parrots back to him, in a perfect dead-pan impression of the tall shit with the glasses. “Unfortunate turn of phrase, _oral contact_ …whatever do you think he means?”

“Ha bloody Ha! Very funny…. Well I’m not sucking you off if that’s what you’re getting at”.

“Ears remember”, the boy says, and he smiles again as if Greg passed some sort of test, like two friends sharing a private joke, and the atmosphere in the room becomes a little less frosty as a result. “But to answer your question…no, I think not”.

“Good job”, Greg says, “I don’t even know your name”. Sexual innuendo, the ultimate icebreaker.

“And that’s a prerequisite is it, knowing my name?”, the boy says, “The names Sherlock , Sherlock Holmes”, and extends his hand for Greg to shake, but before Greg can answer he adds, “And you’re Greg Lestrade, but I’ll withhold the pleased to meet you part pending further investigation”.

“Er…right, yeah…how did you know that?”

“It’s a trick”, Sherlock sighs, “Just a magic trick I taught myself”.

Greg snorts in disbelief, and Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “Don’t make me wish I’d chosen someone more intelligent….any idiot can learn to lip-read, plus, I had an unobstructed view, and rather a lot of time on my hands”. He gestures towards the glass.

“Really..? Should I be flattered you were paying so much attention to me?” Greg raises an eyebrow sceptically.

And there’s that headshake again. It seems he’s still not getting something. God this kid is infuriating.

“They know your name now, by the way”. He nods towards the glass.

“They’ve known it since yesterday”.

“Wait! What? How?”

“Oh for gods sakes”, Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Because I told them, that’s why, for all the good it’ll do them….you’re eloquence astounds, by the way”.

“So why still refer to you as the subject then?”

Sherlock shrugs, “An exercise in dominance and control…, strip me of my name, my identity, to put me in my place…embarrassingly ineffective as it happens…..oh, and he’s just a twat, but you already know that”, he adds with a mock-salute to Ericsson up in the gallery.

Greg eyes the red welts that criss-cross thin wrists and thinks that minor insult doesn’t begin to cover just what that man is.

“Hang on a sec”, Greg says back-tracking in a sudden moment of clarity, “Nobody calls me by my first name here, so where the hell did you get the name Greg from?”

Sherlock looks murderous for a second and Greg wonders if he’s already overstepped the mark and ruined this fragile peace that seems to have settled between them. But then Sherlock slides closer, very deliberately and Greg freezes and holds his breath in anticipation. He is so close now every freckle on his pale skin stands out like paint splatters on a bare white canvas; A smattering of dark downy hair on his forearms, short bitten fingernails and the heady scent of clean fresh sweat and a musky spice. Sherlock settles with their legs slightly touching, Greg’s left and Sherlock’s right. There’s a fair bit of shoulder contact too and the tickle of soft dark curls much too close to his ear. This is….strange, and not at all what Greg expects. But still, it’s not wholly unpleasant, quite the opposite, in fact. He swallows around the lump in his throat and wills his body to relax.

I wonder if he tastes as good as he smells, Greg thinks before he can stop it, which earns a well-deserved elbow in the ribs.

_“Such impure thoughts Gregory, you surprise me”._

“Huh?”

Before he responds further, Sherlock digs his fingers in the side of Greg’s thigh, hard enough to bruise.

It’s a warning. A shut the fuck up you idiot. Because Greg definitely didn’t see his mouth move, not since he called Ericsson a twat, and Greg’s been looking right at him the whole time, but yet he heard Sherlock as clear as day. How?

_“Another magic trick you might say. You have questions. But don’t you dare speak. Just….think the words in your head and I’ll hear them”._

_“Just what the hell are you?”_ God this is weird, feels like talking to yourself.

Sherlock sighs. _“I’m exactly what you all suppose me to be. A Sentinel”._

_“And they can all do this….this thing you’re doing?”_

_“Well put….but no, that might just be me”_

_“Ah, and that’s because you’re such a special little snowflake right?”_

_“Is this some kind of joke to you?”_ The words are sharp and vicious and stab into his brain. _"Have you any idea of the danger you’re in?_ ”

 _“Who from you or them?”_  Greg answers through a haze of pain.

_“Good….you understand then?”_

But Greg’s not sure he understands this at all. _“And what makes you think you can trust me anyway? Aren’t I just ‘one of them’? This is a bit of a risk isn’t it, showing me all your party tricks?”_

Sherlock glares at him fiercely, before he carefully schools his features back to something resembling neutrality. _“I’m inside your mind, aren’t I, which is infinitely further than any of your precious Guides have ventured despite subjecting you to every test available. You intrigue me Greg Lestrade - So many secrets, so many walls. What are you so afraid of I wonder? You trust them about as much as I do right now, and I’m curious to understand why”._

_“How did you even…..what the hell sort of Sentinel are you?”_

_“What sort indeed”_ Sherlock looks pensive, “ _A question I would very much like the answer to…we at least have that much in common…plus a burning desire to leave this Castle”._

_“And what the hell makes you think I want to leave?”_

_“The things they did to me yesterday disgusted you, you’re ashamed to be a part of this, ashamed to be a Guide…and besides, they know now you’ve been lying and it won’t go unpunished, so they’ll use you for their own ends just like this, not caring if you die as a consequence”._

It’s all too much, and Greg turns to move away, to put some distance between them, when Sherlock makes a grab for his wrist. Long fingers twist and pinch at the skin as Sherlock pulls his arm back roughly and pain shoots up into his shoulder. The watchers in the gallery look on. They do nothing. Ericsson stands impassive, sipping at his mid-morning coffee. They never intended to help, Greg’s just here to push the Castle’s twisted agenda, an expendable tool in the taming of a Sentinel. His life is of no consequence. The boy could crush him like a fly, wrap his hands around Greg’s throat and slowly drain the life from him, and all they will do is watch, make notes, collect data, then haul him out in a body bag after.

The Sentinel is right.

Whatever status he has here is forfeit. Guide against Guide. The duplicity turns his stomach.

 _“I haven’t finished yet”,_ Sherlock continues as Greg struggles in his grasp. “ _We’ve barely scratched the surface. Someone you love, that you care about deeply thinks you’re a traitor to your kind. It hurts, but you had to do it, had to make this choice for your father and the rest of your family, because he’s dying isn’t he, from heart disease, the drugs_ _your betrayal provides are the one thing keeping him alive”._

“Don’t even….just don’t”. Greg snaps out loud. He breaks the contact finally and wrenches his arm away, but Sherlock anticipates and moves with him, and as he tries to scramble to his feet, Sherlock catches him by the waist, locks his arms tight and drags Greg back toward him. They’re nose to nose this time, so close Greg can feel a magnetic tingle prickling between their skin, hot breath puffs in bursts on the side of his cheek, and damp lips glisten before his, slightly parted.

Just a tilt of the head, that’s all it would take.

“Get your fucking hands off me”. He snaps, both panicked and disturbed by such a visceral reaction. He tries to twist away from him but Sherlock just laughs at the futile attempt, grips him tighter and shoves him backwards with a well-aimed shoulder to the chest. It takes them both down, hard, onto the floor. His skull connects with hard cold tile and white flashes of light erupt before his eyes. Sherlock has his other wrist too, splayed either side of his head, and his right knee planted firmly on Greg’s chest to pin him to the ground. Greg tries to roll over bucking his hips to dislodge the boy and release the pressure on his sternum, but Sherlock merely swings his left leg over Greg’s body and sits on top of him, solid and heavy, hot and panting, glistening with sweat, and it all seems so laughably easy for him. It’s hard to breathe past the weight on his chest and the tight, hot feeling in his groin like he’s crawling out of his skin. He can’t even move now, harsh stuttering breaths are all he can take and his mind can’t even process past the sensation of the body pressed on top of him, grinding down with his arse, slowly and deliberately.

This is all so very not good.

Sherlock leans in close and breathes into Greg’s ear, not caring who hears them now, chest to chest, skin to skin, tacky with sweat and pupils dilated.

“Or what?” he says teasing, in a voice that drips with contempt, “Who’s going to stop me. You?.... Look around you Greg, really fucking look…and ask yourself where are the alarms this time? The men with the tasers come to knock me to the ground, to pin me down and tie me up and pump my body with drugs? They don’t give a damn”, he hisses through clenched teeth. “You’re entirely expendable, a pawn in their game, they’ve played you for a fool and you know it. The moment you stepped into this room you sealed your fate and now there’s only two ways you’re ever going to leave again: Bonded to a Sentinel, or dead”.

“Now tell me”, he whispers, soft as a caress, “Which is it to be?”

 

 


	6. Sympathy For The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is a wanted man, but who wants him and why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies for the delay in posting this chapter, I had a week away visiting family with no internet access which was hellish to say the least and really knocked me off my game. Anyway - I have been hinting at this, but still I'm hesitant to post this chapter, but I feel it's absolutely necessary to fill in some of Sherlock's backstory so his presence in the North has some validity. It by no means tells the whole tale, but if people find it jars to flashback in this way I'll try to find another means of relating his past without interrupting the narrative quite so blatantly. I know I left it at a bit of a turning point last time but I promise that we'll pick straight up with Sherlock and Greg next chapter and things will take a more linear route from there - also, there shouldn't be such a long gap between posts next time round. 
> 
> On the plus side we get to meet Mycroft (Yay!) and Moriarty (Boo!) and some other familiar faces too. And just in case anyone is wondering, I have included a scene and a particular line of dialogue originally spoken by the character Stuart Allan Jones in the brilliant Queer As Folk - (UK Version) written by Russel T. Davies.

 

 

“The footage is back Sir, would you like to go through it now?”

Mycroft Holmes looks up from the piles of paper strewn haphazardly across the surface of his desk. He is never this disorganized, ever, neat to a fault and always completely in command of both himself and the carefully crafted image he presents to the rest of the world, his superiors included. But once in a while, it slips like now, whilst pouring over the latest influx of documentation regarding his brother.

Sixteen months and no positive first hand sightings of Sherlock, just conjecture alluding to vague possibilities that he could have passed through such and such a town, and nothing at all for the past six months. To his parents this means his brother is almost certainly dead or incarcerated by a faction of rebel Guides, but to Mycroft, the most likely scenario is that he’s finally broken through and crossed the border into the North as they discussed.

Of course there is always the unfortunate possibility they are both right, the North is not the backward realm of impotent Guides propaganda would have the populace believe.

Setting aside the reports from the border patrols he nods his head in acknowledgement. They detail the arrests of fifty-six unregistered Guides and Sentinels taken at the Northern border over the last three months alone. Really, he should have more faith that his brother, though reckless and arrogant to the extreme would not have been so foolish as to tread the usual paths and attempt to cross with false identity papers. At a guess he took the most difficult route instead, over the rough terrain of the Pennine mountains. Patrols are spread more widely there and communication signals at their lowest efficiency, something that Sherlock would find easy to exploit. It still comes as a surprise however, to realize how astonishingly self-sufficient he has proved himself to be despite his coddled upbringing. But it is this very same streak of stubborn self-determination which has already brought him into conflict with the most powerful family in the country and puts all who bear the name Holmes at risk too.

The investigation into Sherlock’s current location is therefore of necessity a delicate process, a balance between the power Mycroft has now and the influence he hopes to wield in the future. Detection by his superiors risks a charge of insubordination, a trial for gross misconduct, and a potential penalty of lifetime incarceration or death.

In the old days before the Republic was established the charge would be treason against the Crown, but of course there is no crown now, no monarchy, no democratic process of duly elected government. There is only the Tower and its autocratic authority in the hands of the Sentinel Prime.

Professor James Moriarty.

For six generations now, this powerful family has ruled over England with a fist of iron soaked in the blood of the weak or those who would dare to disobey them.

The King is dead, long live the King.

Indeed.

Mycroft chuckles ruefully knowing the boat has been well and truly rocked now, and their ordered existence could all be about to come crashing down around them, the future of them all in the hands of a whip- smart headstrong, rebellious teenage boy.

“I suppose now is as good a time as any,” he sighs, pushing back from the desk a little as he pinches his brow between forefinger and thumb. No one sees this side of him usually, guard down and vulnerable. It’s easy to forget that he’s only twenty-three when on a good day he feels decades older.

Anthea cautiously enters the room, closing the door with the softest of clicks. She kicks off her heels and walks the rest of the way over to his desk on bare-stockinged feet that leave a trail of damp footprints on the smooth dark tiles. He appreciates the gesture, not having slept for forty-eight hours his overwrought senses become harder to push down, and so he smiles tentatively, feeling the odd unnatural pull of muscles rarely used these days as she hands him a small black data stick, innocuous in its simplicity. Such a miniscule thing to be worth so much trouble he thinks, but Mycroft has ways to manipulate the strict protocol of the Tower and use their resources for his own private agenda. In this case locating his errant sibling and establishing his innocence on an accusation of murder.

Sherlock may be many things, wilful, arrogant, beyond the control of both Mycroft and his parents, but Mycroft has never doubted for a second that any and all charges against his brother have been totally fabricated by the Moriarty family.

He sets the ghost program running that will overlay the data from the stick and encrypt the images in an unbreakable code. He is as sure as he can be that this will work, having devised the program himself to hide personal information from Sherlock. It’s a good enough endorsement. Holmes proof is about as secure as it can get. His office at home is a safe zone, a necessary haven. There are no listening devices secretly concealed here, no cameras to record his every waking moment, and no superior officers to breathe down his neck. But still his heart pounds and his palms run clammy with sweat as he pushes the data stick home.

Anthea leans over his shoulder to watch, one hand pressed against the walnut surface of the desk while the other hand lingers on his shoulder, her fragrant breath ghosting over his cheek. Mycroft doesn’t mind the familiar, intimate gesture which from anyone else would be entirely unbearable, but the steadying touch of the Guide permeates his consciousness enough to cut through the heavy, numbing veil of fatigue.

“Which?” he asks simply.

“Drone 221 Sir, South-East Northumberland two days ago now.”

He clicks on the file. The images are remarkably clear on the screen as the drone sweeps over a lush wild landscape, rich green grass and fields of yellow rape-seed in bloom; rolling fields melt into forest dominated by conifer trees, much of the area dense and impenetrable and Mycroft sighs in audible frustration even as he prays that his brother has the good sense to take advantage of the cover they provide. After all, he cannot presume to be the only one searching, would never be so complacent when his brother’s life is at stake. The trees and fields give way to small villages and the straight grey tarmac road that bisects the County from its Southern border in an unbroken trail through to Scotland. Further to the East the roads wind in snakelike coils that hug close to the coast and it is at this point a little to the West of the coastal village of Alnmouth that Mycroft leans in, pauses the footage and locks on to the bottom left-hand quadrant of the image.

Mycroft lets out a ragged breath. It’s unmistakeably Sherlock in the image. The long, angular lines of his body immediately recognisable even from an aerial perspective, the way he moves, sinuous, with a natural born grace that Mycroft will never acquire despite his best efforts, picking his way carefully along the hedgerow keeping out of sight of the road. Even at a distance he can see the boy is even thinner than he’s ever seen him, skin stretched taught over every bony prominence. He looks feral too, hair grown unruly even though he has obviously made some attempt to control it, hacking at the overgrown curls with a Swiss Army knife Mycroft deduces, a fourteenth birthday gift from their father usually employed in the untimely demise of various unfortunate creatures. His clothes are appalling, even more so than usual, ragged jeans too short after yet another growth spurt and a filthy white t-shirt with a grey hooded jacket tied loosely at his waist. He needs a shave badly too, the slight growth of stubble at his jaw makes him seem much, much older than his sixteen years. But Mycroft amends this with a sudden guilty pang, Sherlock is seventeen now and has been for several months, his gifts still unopened in his mother’s bureau in the morning room.

Mycroft scrolls through the rest of the footage frame by frame, until the drone pans further East towards the sea and Sherlock is gone again, slipping away off-screen.

“Good news Sir?” Anthea questions gently, and he turns his head barely able to meet her steady, open gaze.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft concedes at last and purses his lips, annoyed the situation still remains beyond his control when in reality he should feel elated, Sherlock is alive, functioning, and it is safe to assume from the visual evidence is in reasonable physical health. They have an approximate location too, which is more than they’ve had in almost a year, and by extrapolating walking speed, and allowing for periods of rest, can estimate where he could be now.

But this was two days ago, and anxiety creases his brow even as Mycroft gazes at the screen and the drone pans further North along the shoreline, the high stone battlements of Bamburgh appearing in the frame. Clouds hover slate-grey and heavy above the ancient castle battlements, stretching out as far as the horizon. Foam-tipped waves crash rhythmically upon the long white stretch of sand. It is a paradox Mycroft thinks, an enigma, forbidding and sinister and achingly beautiful all at once, a dark presence that dominates the landscape, and a mocking reflection of the Tower. And it looms much too close, its shadow encroaching on the landscape, insidious.

Sherlock is alone and Mycroft believes, unarmed. On open ground his brother has a chance at least, but within those walls he would be as good as lost. Sherlock is undoubtedly strong but the numbers Mycroft estimates, residing behind the impregnable stone would be impossible to resist without allies.

The drone pans back again, untraceable by the Castle’s inferior technology and it picks out a line of armoured vehicles rolling down the steep winding bank and out along the country roads below. They head South, back along the coast toward Alnmouth.

For the first time since his brother ran away Mycroft prays.

They are running out of time.

“What news of Miss Hooper?” he asks with an air of finality, saliva thick in his mouth. He stifles a cough and takes a grateful sip of water, allowing himself a moment to close his eyes and block out the incessant blue-tinged glare of the monitor.

“Dr Stapleton reports no significant change sir. The patient is stable but remains unresponsive to all external stimuli….I’m sorry sir”, she adds, the gentle pressure from her palm increasing against the curve of his shoulder.

Mycroft sighs heavily. He has seen this all too often. A young and inexperienced Guide attempts to assist a Sentinel experiencing a zone. Sherlock’s raw power should have been warning enough. Mycroft should have seen it coming, and put measures in place to stop this from occurring as it was common knowledge amongst their peers at the Academy the girl was hopelessly infatuated with his brother. A fact which had not escaped Sherlock’s notice by any means and who quite characteristically chose to use such devotion for his own selfish ends. How many times had she provided excuses, defended him, lied for him or been there in whatever capacity he would have her to no advantageous end?

There is little solace to be found in the fact that The Tower would never have sanctioned the match even if both parties had desired it.

Sherlock as it happens defies categorization, there are no other Sentinels in the South or elsewhere with all five enhanced senses. Except one, Mycroft reminds himself harshly, which makes Sherlock both a threat and an asset, and one that must be brought under control by whatever means are at the disposal of The Tower.

“In that case, one can only hope that Sherlock finds the Guide in time and convinces them to bond”.

Something fierce and protective stirs in Mycroft’s chest. The boy is barely seventeen and already his life is an unholy mess. Sherlock will never be like he is, controlled, conforming, not because he doesn’t try but because he simply can’t.

One day, one simple twist of fate and Sherlock’s life would never be the same again.

~*~

Sixteen Months Earlier:

 

“Hey, we’ll drop here if you like, you can walk the rest of the way in okay”.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Sherlock growls, and Victor smirks, his words specifically delivered to wind Sherlock up, and slaps his hand away as Sherlock makes a grab for the steering wheel. The black soft-top jeep veers wildly, front wheel clipping the edge of the Kerb and bouncing back down into the road.

“Cool it you bloody maniacs,” Alexander, Victor’s terminally boring friend snaps at them both, strapped securely in the passenger seat and clinging desperately to the door handle, “Or did you plan to trash the car completely, finish off what those little bastards started last night, eh?”

“That was hardly my fault,” says Sherlock shrugging off Alex’s censure, “Since it was parked outside your stupid flat.”

Alex has the good grace at least to look guilty Sherlock thinks as his eyes flick over to the space where a wing mirror should be, and then to the windscreen stripped of its wiper’s and the deep scratch running through the centre. He rolls his eyes ignoring Alex’s disapproving glare and drapes one arm around Victor’s neck to bite down hard on the soft flesh of his earlobe.

“Ouch!...Jesus Sherlock, do you have to?” Victor swats him away, barely keeping control of the jeep this time as he swings into the long gravel driveway that stretches up toward the large red-bricked building of The Academy. Tiny chunks of stone fly like bullets from beneath the tyres as they barely break speed and thunder on, horn beeping madly to clear the way through. Kids, wide-eyed with fear scatter on either side of them.

“I told you, it doesn’t matter, company car courtesy of our friends at the Tower”.

“For god’s sake slow down Vic.” Alexander holds on to the sides of his seat and rasps, “Before you bloody well kill us all”.

“Got to get our boy to school on time,” Victor laughs.

“But they’ll see the…you know.” Alex gestures vaguely, arm sweeping along the length of the interior.

Sherlock knows exactly what he means. “So what? Let them look.” He shrugs for a second time, stretching forward and linking Vic’s fingers with his own and whipping the wheel round forcefully. The jeep lists over on two wheels slamming his shoulder hard into the window and a surge of adrenaline sets his skin alight until it crashes to the ground, righting itself again.

They screech to a halt at the foot of the wide stone steps leading up to the entrance and Sherlock notes with satisfaction, a small crowd has gathered to watch him. Molly Hooper hovers uncertainly on the fringes of the group, her own bag over her shoulder with Sherlock’s clutched tightly in her hands. She frowns, anxious then smiles shyly, clearly relieved as she sees him through the tinted glass pane and moves towards them, pushing against the flow of bodies making their way into the building for the morning’s first lesson.

Alex climbs out reluctantly, flipping back the seat so Sherlock can climb out the back. Then he climbs back inside and slams the door shut as Sherlock walks unhurried around to where Victor sits. He leans in through the window in full view of his remaining classmates and fists one hand tightly in the front of Victors shirt leaving his mark, his chaos on expensive Italian silk.

“Pick me up tonight at eight.” His voice is demanding, brooking no argument and Victor licks his lips and nods, his earlier bravado wilting in the face of the more powerful Sentinel.

“That your boyfriend then Holmes?” a voice jeers behind him.

“Get lost kid,” Victor drawls, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s full lips. He lights up two cigarettes as a means of distraction and kisses Sherlock lightly, pressing one between his parted lips with a grin. Sherlock inhales gratefully, savouring the curl of heat and chemicals within his body.

“Or what?” Carl Powers laughs mockingly.

“Or I’ll give you a good fuck, you tight little virgin, you won’t be laughing then,” Victor sneers and Sherlock coughs involuntarily at the look of shock and disgust on Powers face.

“Eight then and don’t be late this time.” Victor flashes a final smile and the jeep speeds off with a roar from the engine and a shower of gravel. The right hand side spells out ‘ Sentinel Fag’s’ in neon pink spray paint against the glossy black surface.

“Good night was it?” Molly hands him the bag with his uniform in, and nods towards the retreating car. The staring doesn’t stop as Sherlock strips off last night’s clothes where he stands, right there in front of everyone not caring in the slightest at the exposure.

“What do you think? I always have a good night.”

The cool morning breeze raises goose-flesh along his arms, nipples hardening to two taut peaks as he shrugs on a crisp white shirt and quirks an eyebrow at her.

Molly shakes her head in fondness and exasperation. “You need to be more careful,” she says, casting a worried eye over the obvious mouth-shaped marks on his neck and chest “Unplanned bonds can be dangerous.”

“Not going to happen,” and he adds, when she still looks unconvinced, “I hardly ever fuck Guides and neither do I penetrate.”

Molly blushes hotly worrying at the skin on her lips with her teeth. “Don’t give me that look….You know this already, Molls, it’s basic Sentinel biology.”

“Yes, but it’s still unproven, just a theory not a recognised or reliable method of bond control…..do you have to be so…” she trails off searching desperately for the right thing to say, the appropriate thing, the thing that will make him finally stop this, whatever this is, the hedonistic behaviour, staying out all night, alcohol, drugs and sex.

It’s hardly his fault he thinks, defensively, knowing that he’s in denial because in truth he hates giving himself over to the baser demands of his body. He knows it has, rather than merely suspecting, much to do with his burgeoning powers, the endless restless energy he feels, mind racing unable to switch off without some chemical alteration. It’s a miracle he hasn’t zoned yet. And it’s not a case of sometimes one sense is locked on and gets too much to bear. It’s all five senses, all the fucking time, and it hurts and it’s always too much and he hates this so much and it will never, ever stop. It doesn’t feel special, he doesn’t feel blessed like his parents proudly tell him he should. Shit, sometimes he even thinks death might be a viable option on his dark days when he crashes hard and can’t get out of bed till late in the afternoon if at all.

The impromptu striptease warrants a few sarcastic whistles and cat calls but other than that the rest of them keep their mouths firmly shut. It’s not hard to guess why. Rumour has it, completely true for once to his surprise that Sherlock has presented with all five enhanced senses and his volatile nature and propensity to punch first and ask questions later has most of the student body quite reasonably terrified of him. Not Molly. She may be quiet but she sees through his bullshit in an instant but continues to stick around despite the unassailable fact that Sherlock Holmes is a self-confessed wanker and terrible friend. Still, her steady, patient presence is the only thing that makes this place bearable on a day to day basis.

Perhaps he should tell her that one day?

But being a Guide, the pressure to bond sits too heavily between them at times, so any admission of affection however innocently meant would be a mistake, open to false hope and assumption. And despite Mycroft’s doubts as to his motives Sherlock is painfully aware how she feels. It’s in the small smiles, swift glances and gentle touches. But Sherlock doesn’t feel things that way, not for Molly or for any girl and he knows he never will.

“So,” she asks, as they make their way along the wide bright corridor to class, “Who’s your new friend, he seemed er….nice?”

“Nice is not a word I would have chosen….arrogant arsehole is more appropriate, and not a friend exactly,” he adds hastily, “Well, only to the extent of the mutual exchange of bodily fluids, but I take it from your expression that’s not what you wanted to hear, so I’ll shut up now shall I?” Molly nods silently and vigorously as they squeeze by a cluster of first years into the lab.

As they take their seats in the third row from the front the hair on his scalp prickles as he senses rather than sees someone staring at him. Not just someone, it’s always him. He slams his bag down a little too hard on the bench top and swings around angrily to face a boy in the row behind.

“Problem?”

Jim Moriarty holds his gaze and the faintest of smiles plays about his lips. Sherlock can’t describe what irks him so much about this boy, other than his irritating sense of entitlement at being son of the Sentinel Prime; The only son, only child in fact, who had recently and unexpectedly manifested as a Guide.

Not that Jim seemed bothered by it.

“Not at all Sherlock dear.” Sherlock bristles at the unwanted familiarity. They glare at each other, unblinking for a while, until the teacher comes in and calls the class to attention. Or rather, Sherlock.

“Holmes, when you’ve quite finished bothering your classmate, or perhaps a detention would be more to your liking?”

The lecture is interminably boring, and Sherlock spends most of his time doodling aimlessly in the margin of his notebook despite the dark eyes boring into the back of his skull throughout. Carl Powers sits directly in front, squirming restlessly on his high wooden stool, and Sherlock spends the rest of the lesson not listening at all, tracing the curves of Carl’s admittedly gorgeous arse onto the lined white paper instead. It seems they’re all a little bored today. Carl gets in trouble for passing notes to Rachel Mather and earns detention after school, cleaning out the supply cupboard in the boys locker room. Sherlock lifts up his head in sudden interest, an idea springing to mind.

“See you later, things to do,” he brushes off Molly at the end of the day cutting across the football field and ducking back into the gym building. His footsteps echo down the high-ceilinged corridor and he pushes through the heavy fire door into the shower block and equipment room. Carl looks up at his approach, sweeping at the floor with a grubby mop and a bucket of dingy looking water. There’s another mop propped up against the side of the wall, and Sherlock takes it silently and dips it in the murky suds.

“What are you doing Holmes?”

“Helping, I am quite capable you know.”

“Yeah, but why?” Carl asks, his high tanned brow wrinkled in confusion, “I thought you fucking hated me, why would you want to help?”

Sherlock shrugs as if he doesn’t actually know. Which is true to a point, altruism is so not his style. But it’s more than that, much more. Carl is a Sentinel like him, so it’s natural they would butt heads, competing for dominance. But Sherlock knows other things too. He’s seen the way Carl stares when he thinks nobody can see him. What it means, those lingering looks, masked by the overtly masculine public persona of the broad, blond-haired boy.It's not an uncommon occurrence and sometimes all it needs is the gentlest of pushes. So it’s barely a surprise when thirty minutes later they’re both sat slumped on a bench between the rows of lockers swigging from a bottle of contraband vodka that they’d found locked inside the gym teacher’s office.

“You’re not such a twat as I thought Holmes,” Carl slurs, eyes slightly glassy from the effects of the alcohol.

Sherlock takes the bottle, sips carefully and grimaces, “Such sweet words Powers, I never knew you cared”.

“Well I suppose for a homo, you aint so bad.”

Sherlock bristles slightly at the slur. They’ve been creeping back into every day usage for a while now. The Tower’s programme for optimum breeding potential means that sexual relations between exclusively male Sentinel couples are once again frowned upon. It’s not the fact both parties are men, in a traditional Sentinel - Guide partnership the objection is irrelevant. Technology now enables a DNA splice into a donor egg with the genetic information of both men and a mute female surrogate. The odds are favourable, with only a thirty percent chance the child will take after the mother at the age of maturation, the odds slightly skewed in favour of Sentinel offspring from the union. The same cannot be said for Sentinels alone. It would seem in a Sentinel pairing, the combined DNA effectively cancel each other out, resulting in rejection by the surrogate or wholly mute offspring.

Anyone would think it was all about the breeding though. You would have thought that the Tower would be in favour. Sleeping exclusively with Sentinels or mutes also eliminates the chances of an unplanned pair-bond, if either party lost control at the point of orgasm, which is a risk Sherlock just isn’t willing to take.

Not ever.

Not with anyone.

So he ignores the insult and watches with interest as Carl’s inhibitions slip further away with every mouthful of Vodka he ingests.

“Rachel, Rachel Mather, ya know,” Carl jabs his finger into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Last weekend, mum’s out, sister’s at a sleepover. Invites me round ‘just to talk’ she says, but we all know what that means eh?” Sherlock hums in agreement even though he couldn’t care less. “ We’re on the sofa, kissing like,” Carl continues oblivious, “I’ve got a handful of tit and she’s making these fucking noises, and Christ then she goes for it. Pulls the zip down and sticks her hand inside my pants, and shit, it’s awful, really fucking bad, she’s doing it all wrong, sort of squeezing it like, and there’s no grip when she’s pulling at it but it still feels good so I let her, and damn I’m so fucking hard. I’m right there, you know? And then a car pulls in, lights through the window and it’s her mum and she stops. She just fucking stops man, and I was right there seriously, a couple more tugs and I would’ve been off.” Carl palms himself and groans, speech slurring and eyes glassed over.

Sherlock is little better, his head rolls to the side and comes to rest on Carl’s shoulder. He leaves it there. Neither move.

Sherlock can see the jut of Carl’s erection through the thin material of his school uniform. He shifts a little to the side, to get a better angle, draws down the zip of Carl’s pants, and slips a hand inside. No objections, just a gasp then an audible groan of pleasure which leaves no room for doubt that the action is welcome.

Just to be sure Sherlock pauses. “Okay?”

Carl jerks his head roughly – yes. He is damp and hot and stiff in Sherlock’s palm, pre-come leaking through, so Sherlock rubs Carl’s prick over his underwear in firm, practiced strokes, moving quicker and pressing harder sensing the racing pulse and listening to the rapid breaths and soft moans he pulls from him at every stroke. He comes with a grunt minutes later, the warm sticky liquid seeping through to soil Sherlock’s fingers. He pulls his hand out and wipes the damp smears on his trouser leg.

The door to the locker room bangs open, smacking off the chipped tile wall and Carl springs back, not meeting Sherlock’s eye and guiltily tucks himself away again.

Jim Moriarty is standing there, eyes wild and breathing hard in the entrance. Carl picks up his blazer and bag, and pushes roughly past him, not looking back, face flushed and staggering slightly.

Sherlock and Jim are alone.

The silence is oppressive, the tension in the air between them palpable. Sherlock has never seen him like this, the boy is normally so carefully controlled, almost unnaturally so. Some would say emotionless, blank-eyed and uncommunicative as if none of them are worth his time, that he’s better than them all somehow. Hardly surprising, considering who his family are. He stares at the smaller boy, or tries to. Two images swirl before his eyes and he blinks in an attempt to bring Jim back in focus, dark hair slicked back, the sharp clean lines of his clothes, pale skin and black eyes. The Jim’s coalesce, settle into one seething whole, his small form visibly vibrates with anger and unfathomably….. disappointment? No, Sherlock blinks again, that can’t be right surely?

“I thought you were better,” Jim spits, his dark eyes brimming full with unshed tears. “But you’re just like all the other mindless sheep aren’t you. Ordinary,” he sneers like it’s the worst sort of insult, which it is in a way. “You’re not special, you’re ordinary. Ordinary Sherlock….and you were supposed to be so much more…you’re supposed to be mine….it’s not fair.”

Sherlock suppresses the urge to laugh at this, at the childish petulance evident in Jim’s tone but a choked- off giggle still slips out.

What a joke. Him and Jim Moriarty?

“Fuck off kid, you’re not ready to play at grown-up games.”

“And wanking Powers is so very mature is it? He’s a Sentinel”. Jim spits his reply.

Sherlock pushes up from the benches, wavers a little on trembling legs and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself. “So? Vic and Alex are too and I really didn’t hear Powers complaining either. I doubt you’d understand it anyway,” he adds, shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear the irritating buzz beginning in his ears. It makes it difficult to think straight. “I get….I have to….it’s just…..so fucking much sometimes. I’m not supposed to be yours, I’m not supposed to be anyone’s, so just leave me the fuck alone.”

He lurches closer to the other boy, who wrinkles his nose in mild disgust and holds up a palm to fend him off calmly. He’s too calm. A mask has descended and there isn’t the slightest hint of fear on his face anymore, no anger, no tears, and not the merest flicker of uncertainty. Instead he looks almost pitying and that’s worse, so much worse somehow.

His legs feel weak from too much alcohol and the persistent dull throb of an unattended erection and he sways a little more as his mind slips out of focus and a wall of white noise assaults his ears. He’s on the brink of a zone from too little sleep and too many mind altering substances. It’s never happened fully before and he can’t let it happen here, not in front of Jim.

He tries to brush past but his legs remain stubbornly rooted to the floor.

Jim moves closer, steps forward until they stand mere inches apart. “Look at you.” He hears Jim’s silky tones, distorted as if heard underwater, every breath is laboured as his body slips offline. “The great Sherlock Holmes…you need me right now, so very, very much. Just….Like…. This….”

Sherlock shudders at the touch of ice cold knuckles tracing the contours of his jaw. Fingers tighten either side of his chin and jerk his head roughly to the side. Something warm, and wet and horribly alive slides up his neck and a rough inhale draws a moan from Jim’s lips.

“Beautiful”, he hums, breath like fire against Sherlock’s skin. “Open up now, I know you want to baby”.

Sherlock shakes his head in mute protest and pushes ineffectually at the hand clasped tight around his jaw. Jim squeezes hard, his sudden strength alarming. It forces Sherlock’s own lips against the sharpness of teeth until a rush of hot iron floods his mouth. He feels it run down his chin in a warm sticky stream, retching as his throat works to swallow the rest while his body protests and tries to reject it.

“So messy,” Jim hisses, “Such a shame to waste it.”

A cry of horror rips from Sherlock’s throat at the smooth tongue lapping hungrily at every last spilled drop. But he cannot move, he cannot speak, limp in Moriarty’s grasp.

“You think you’re so much better than me don’t you, untouchable Mr Sex, the Sentinel Prince…but you’re nothing without me…you could have it all, the power, the control…we’re perfect for each other, The King in waiting and the Dark One….see, I know you Sherlock, you’ve kept this very quiet my love but your heart is as black as a nightmare…just like mine.”

“No!” His fear finds voice at last and he cries out, hoarse and desperate.

“Ah…ah…ahh,” Jim teases and wags a warning finger. “We will bond, you and I….a part of you is inside me ….now let me into that incredible mind.”

Dark eyes fix his gaze like staring into an abyss. There is no emotion there that he can detect, no characteristic Guide empathy, just the snaking tendrils of a bleak corrupting consciousness, reptilian and cold. It suffocates him, muffles his senses and the time stretches out, thick like molasses.

He breathes in through his nose, wills away the growing swell of nausea and gradually the need to zone recedes and sensory input floods back in. The wood of the low bench pressing hard into the backs of his calves, the sour musky smell of stale adolescent sweat and the acrid tang of industrial detergent. The afternoon sun lances through the high narrow window panes like a searchlight, illuminating, the heat of it burns into the side of his face and he feels his body ignite as a surge of white-hot anger breaks through the haze at last. It’s like a furnace, destructive in its intensity and he sees it that way too; a wall of searing flame bursts forth to incinerate the intrusion and reduce it to ash.

He staggers back, falls onto the bench with a thump, Moriarty sprawled on the floor at his feet. There is no recollection as to how he ended up there and shocked surprise is etched on Jim's porcelain features and his breath huffs out in painful, sharp bursts. But Sherlock won’t leave it like this and his mind won’t shake the horror and the sick violation of what he just failed to prevent in his weakened state. He lurches forward and grabs Jim roughly fisting his collar and tie in an iron grip and pulls him like a ragdoll to his feet.

The last of Jim’s breath leaves his lungs as Sherlock slams him roughly to the wall. Almost nose to nose he pulls his lips back and snarls, hands moving up to circle Jim’s slim neck.

“Stay the fuck out of my head, you…vermin.”

He’s pressing too hard, thumbs into windpipe. Jim’s face turns an odd shade of puce and choked sounds gurgle in his throat. He’s choking for real, air cut off and dying. He could kill him like this, it wouldn’t take much more. Jim’s eyes bulge, skin blood hot and tight and Jim presses forward towards him, hands reaching out to clutch at his hips. Their bodies connect and Sherlock blinks in confusion pushing Jim away in disgust. The smaller boy slides to the floor, sucking in air and rubbing at the bruises, livid on the pale skin of his throat.

“Like I said,” Jim croaks, laughing bleakly and palming his erection, pressing down with the heel of his hand, a shiver of contentment running through him. “Made for each other, in every single way.”

“What the hell are you?”

“Something new, something not boring… and isn’t that just thrilling, you obviously think so too.” Jim looks him up and down with a smirk eyes hovering just below the waist at his groin.

Sherlock feels sick with shame.

“We’re not the same,” he rasps brokenly. “I’m nothing like you….”

“Keep telling yourself that gorgeous….but you know where I am when you come to your senses….or just come, I’ll take either, or both if you’re lucky.”

Jim pushes up the wall to his feet. Sherlock lets him. He wants to run, but any retreat will be seen as weakness, and this is a power play more than anything else, what happens now is vital in the battle for dominance. Because Jim Moriarty is like no Guide he has either seen or heard of by reputation or otherwise, he is cold, manipulative and black to the core.

Jim smiles the sort of smile that has teeth. “You’ll be hearing from me Sherlock Holmes, very soon, I promise you. I’ve enjoyed this little game of ours, but it’s far from over yet.” He turns abruptly then, and pushes out through the door the way he came. It clangs shut, and then he’s gone, and only the ghost of his presence remains. Only a lingering scent of expensive cologne to mark he’d ever been there. Sherlock stares at the space he once occupied with a feeling of dread deep in the pit of his stomach, suddenly, startlingly sober again.

Game?

What game?

“Hey, Moriarty, what the hell do you mean? What game? ”

He pushes blindly through the door after Jim and scans up and down the wide, empty corridor. Jim is gone.

Sherlock’s voice echoes loud within the space, his own words thrown back at him, haunting and desperate.

Game….

Game….

Game….

~*~

Jim Moriarty is not his Guide.

Sherlock clings to this fragile certainty like a lifeline over the following days. Jim keeps his distance, but the sly secret smiles and the endless staring continue hiding daggers beneath a veil of blank politeness. By the weekend he succeeds in pissing off everyone who dares to cross his path, feels wired all the time, crawling out of his skin and hasn’t slept for forty-eight hours straight. How can he, when every time he closes his eyes Jim’s face leers out of the darkness, teeth dripping blood. His blood. This is why, he imagines, he never feesl the first blow as a fist slams into his stomach, only the vague confusing notion that he can’t draw in a breath. The second lands on his ribs at the right side, and pushes his body into something cold and solid. Clarity returns as his head snaps back, instant and agonised in the form of sharp hot pain lancing down his spine.

His arms are pinned, one thick body braced at either side of him to hold him steady and the final blow (he hopes) lands with sickening accuracy on the prominence of a cheekbone, a supernova of blinding light erupting across his vision. The bodies pinning him move aside and he sinks to the floor with a groan.

“I thought you cared Powers or is this your version of foreplay?”

“You just don’t get it fag….come near me again and I’ll break your fucking legs.”

A greasy gob of saliva splats against the side of his face rolls down his cheek. The damp dregs seep through the shoulder of his t-shirt. In hindsight coming on to a closeted Sentinel at one of Victor’s infamous parties spoke volumes about his instinct for self-preservation. And still he can’t keep his mouth shut, as he delivers an ill-advised parting retort to Carl’s retreating back. It’s almost as if he wants to be punished.

“Call me, let’s do lunch, or each other, whichever you prefer….I do a stunning milkshake by the way, but you already know that, don’t you?” he calls.

The tall stocky boy halts in his tracks. Is this it – impending oblivion?

Sherlock tenses, squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the blow.

It never comes.

Instead familiar hands haul him upright and he groans in discomfort.

“What the hell are you playing at…are you actually trying to get yourself killed or is self-flagellation a new hobby these days? How many beatings this week? And don’t you dare tell me Powers is the first.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Two, maybe three if you count Moriarty which I definitely don’t the creepy little shit.”

“You’re an idiot” Victor sighs, leaning against an exposed brick pillar at his side. “I can’t always be there to watch your back. Slow it down, stop being a tit for once in your life.” He presses a beer in Sherlock’s hand. “So,” he adds warily, “I noticed your name on the admissions docs this week, what gives kid, I thought you were saving yourself or something.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock snorts, “Not in that sense anyway.”

“Yeah, but seriously Sherlock there are no under eighteens on the programme, not unless there’s a guaranteed bond consummated within six months of application.”

“I’ve been sold to the highest bidder apparently, all I have to do is sign on the dotted line.”

It’s the last thing he wants to admit, because that makes it true and Sherlock isn’t ready to face this thing yet. Hence the current bout of self-destruction.

“Fuck. Who to?”

“Moriarty.”

“Wow.” Victor shakes his head in disbelief.

“They’re coming over tomorrow apparently for a friendly little family dinner. This could be my very last night of freedom so I plan on making the most of it.”

“By getting your head kicked in? Good plan you fucking idiot. So you’re giving up, just like that? You know he’s out there, your Guide, so do us all a favour and go find him.”

The older boy pivots Sherlock’s shoulders, turning him around to face him. He looks determined, angry and frustrated at Sherlock’s air of apathy, but hurting a little too, because they both knew that their ‘arrangement’ was never meant to last, that Sherlock was always going to leave some day. Neither of them were expecting it to end like this.

“Since when did I ‘come quietly’?” Sherlock says flippantly as he tries to ignore the stabbing in the centre of his chest. He winces anyway. “Mycroft may have an out, he’s working on it, but my last assessment at the Academy this week was the final straw.”

“What did you do – punch creepy Frankland? Did he tell you to take off your pants or something?”

“Not this time no, I got Stapleton, thank god, but apparently they don’t take too kindly when you knock out three elite Tower Guides without even laying a finger on them.”

“Yeah, maybe I’m not getting this, so when you ‘knock out’ out you mean…..?”

“They tried to bypass my Shield and it triggered them to swoon – two of them are still in the Infirmary. So yeah, I am now officially a potential risk, a danger to myself and others …..I got kicked out, expelled from the Academy. Aren’t you proud?” Sherlock raises his drink in mock salute.

“So what? They just sign you to the Tower without your consent instead?”

Sherlock turns to face Victor fully, his eyes now clouded with anger. “Since when did they ever give a damn about consent Vic – they’re worried for their own sorry skins. Yeah, they’ll dress it up and say it’s for my benefit because if no one can Guide me I could die, but in reality? A Sentinel Shield that no one can get through? I’m a fucking loaded gun and they know it.”

“So they keep you where they can see you and bond you to the Primes own son.” Victor whistles, shaking his head as the full extent of Sherlock’s predicament is laid bare. “Well, it was nice knowing you, but damn it kid, you’re fucked.”

~*~

“Nice of you to join us Sherlock, now where the hell have you been?”

“You mean you really don’t know? One might assume you’re slipping brother dear.”

Sherlock hoists himself the rest of the way through the open bedroom window, the need for stealth and silence having passed. He manages a less than dignified roll, flops sideways onto the soft pile carpet and heaves himself back to his feet.

Mycroft glares icily, and Sherlock can see the muscles in his cheeks twitch almost imperceptibly as he clenches his jaw so tight that it must hurt. Sherlock knows the reason. The cloying sweet smell of marijuana smoke bursts from his rumpled clothing in sickening waves.

“You stink,” Mycroft hisses, voice laced with acid disdain, “And you have the audacity to come home high as a bloody kite. No thanks to your dubious new acquaintances.”

“And?” Sherlock resents the implication that he knows to be levelled at Victor and Alex. “What exactly is so offensive to you Mycroft, I’m forging future connections with respected Sentinel families, I thought you’d approve, I know mother certainly would.”

Mycroft wrinkles his nose, no doubt composing a mental checklist of his misdemeanours by scenting alone: stale sweat, weed, ejaculate (not just his own) an extended period of time spent in a car with a diesel engine, sandalwood and bergamot essential oils, expensive cologne of French extraction, tomato and basil pasta sauce and white Belgian chocolate.

“Just wash”, he snaps moving to the bedroom door, and choosing to ignore the obvious dig at his own parents motives, willingly setting his future in the hands of the grasping power hungry Sentinel Prime - Moriarty. “Immediately, before mother smells you,” Mycroft adds, hand braced against the open door frame, “It’s the dinner tonight with the Professor and his family, or had you forgotten – how very like you”.

He sweeps through the door and pulls it tight behind him. Sherlock slides the window shut, sealing the cold air outside. Sherlock scowls as he pads across the floor to his bathroom, kicks off his shoes by the door. He walks into the cool tiled space and stands with his back pressed to the smooth wooden panels breathing hard as relief floods through him at escaping from Mycroft’s penetrating gaze. As his heart-rate decreases he crosses to the sink and sets the hot tap running. Cupped palms fill with water which he splashes over his skin. The water soaks the curls at the front where they hang down over his brow, his hair in desperate need of a trim and it runs down his face, dripping off his chin into the porcelain bowl, grey and flecked with grime. Likewise, a quick probe around his mouth with the tip of his tongue confirms the assessment that Mycroft will doubtless have made; cheap food, bad drugs and the salt-sour aftertaste of a completely unsatisfying blow-job, for both parties.

God he feels like shit.

Of course he hadn’t forgotten. That was the point of last night.

Sherlock turns the shower on full, peels off his t-shirt and pushes jeans down freezing cold thighs. The underwear is dumped in the bin by the toilet and then he steps beneath the stinging hot spray. Every muscle protests each motion as he ducks out for a moment, feet slipping on the glossy tiles until he makes it to the cabinet below the sink. He locates a blister pack of painkillers and throws two blindly into his mouth swallows them dry, feeling them scrape down the back of his throat. Stepping back under the spray, shaking with pain and fatigue he tilts up his chin, opens his mouth and takes down a gulp of hot water. The sensation makes him retch and he drops to his haunches hugging his arms around his middle squeezed into a tight, trembling ball.

This is better, he thinks, and slides down fully to the floor head bowed and arms still wrapped tight as if the very pressure will make him feel whole. Water batters the nape of his neck and last night’s transgressions are carried down the drain.

Sherlock feels done, unbearably tired and still his mind races and rest is a distant memory. A thousand hot needles stab into his skin and the gentle patter of liquid roars against sensitive ears. It takes every ounce of his remaining will to drag himself upright and shut off the spray. The soft towel feels like sixty grit sandpaper and after a cursory dab he tosses it aside. There is no one here to see him.

A smart tailored suit is laid out on the bed, deep-blue wool and a shirt in a lighter shade. He drags it on roughly, hating the pretence, a home reduced to a farcical stage. They must think him a child, an idiot to be blind to the evenings agenda; Sherlock’s current un-bonded state. If matters were progressing at a normal rate, it wouldn’t be considered before the age of eighteen, but the status bestowed by his talents and parentage brought him to the attention of the Sentinel Prime. And of course there is the small matter of his most recent assessment.

Sherlock suppresses a snarl.

Nothing but the best for the Moriarty progeny, and Guide or no Jim gets what he wants. And what he happens to want, is Sherlock.

And there are still those harbouring under the mistaken illusion being born a Sentinel means a life of great privilege?

It drags at his neck like noose, which pulls tighter with every passing day.

His mother, far from being appalled at his expulsion as he expected is ecstatic, like he’s the fucking chosen one or something and so here he is, about to be sacrificed on the altar of her greed and ambition. The price of an alliance between the Holmes’ and Moriarty’s is Sherlock’s freedom and future.

He hopes they all choke on it.

As a final flourish he ruffles his hair into a halo of unkempt curls and flicks open another button at the neck to expose the marks of debauchery on his throat.

Muffled voices and laughter drift on the air, a chink of crystal, signals champagne poured in premature celebration. All eyes turn as he enters the room, some disapproving, others positively predatory. He turns his back for now, fingers twitching for a cigarette to calm his jangled nerves. Jim Moriarty stands by his father, black hair oiled back sipping iced water, clearly amused. He winks and Sherlock feels his stomach lurch, nausea and fury combined. How does he have the nerve to stand there, as if nothing is wrong, as if they aren’t all about to destroy his life?

“Sherlock darling”, his mother sweeps across the room with a glass of champagne in hand before he has a chance to slip away. He snatches it from her outstretched fingertips instead, if he can’t smoke then this will have to suffice, and sees her face cloud in anger as he drains it with one swift swallow.

“You look….very handsome tonight dear."

“On the contrary mother, I look like death.” He says, dripping sarcasm, and side-steps her attempt at a kiss on the cheek. He plucks another full glass from the bewildered maid, chugging half of that down too. A stray drop rolls down his chin and he swipes at it angrily with the back of his hand.

What exactly did she expect? That he would make this easy? Go quietly?

Father will be no help, conspicuous in his absence. It’s hardly a secret that the gentle Guide indulges his youngest son shamelessly, but would naturally be excluded by his status from making any important decisions regarding his future. Sherlock knows he tried to plead his case but Mother is the Sentinel and her word is law, even though he made his disapproval known. But he won’t be here tonight, The Tower having called a congress of all senior Guides and their acolytes. How convenient for everyone involved.

“Caution brother dear.” Mycroft plucks the glass from his unresisting fingertips, pressing a tumbler of water to his palm. “You play right into their hands with such…undisciplined behaviour, if you stand even the ghost of a chance to delay this unhappy union you must be fully aware.”

Sherlock stares at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you care? Soul-bonds are sentimental rubbish in your opinion, but we all know there isn’t the slightest chance of that occurring. But Jim for one looks more than happy to get his very own Sentinel whore don’t you think?”

“For god’s sake Sherlock, now is hardly the time for dramatics, your Shields will be compromised by the alcohol and….drugs. Think of who you’re dealing with here and do not underestimate the lengths that he will go to, to have you.”

“Lengths? He’ll never have to go to lengths – not when he can just _take_ – think about who he is Mycroft and stop pretending I actually have a say in all this.”

The urge to rebel flares strong, but the soft insistent tone of Mycroft’s voice rather than the torrent of vitriol he expects gives Sherlock pause for thought.

“On the contrary brother, I believe you’ve lost sight of who you are, what you can become,” Mycroft continues in an echo of Victor’s words to him last night, “Why do you suppose I’m un-bonded at twenty-two. It’s almost unheard of and offers have hardly been lacking, perhaps we are more alike than you suppose.”

“You know?” Sherlock gasps, his voice little more than a whisper of breath.

“I know,” Mycroft reaches out and presses a hand to his shoulder. “And if you have any hope of finding your Guide, you must not be taken by The Tower.”

The weight of Mycroft’s warning sits like lead inside his chest.

“How did you stop them?”

“How do you suppose I have?”

“Anthea?”

Mycroft smiles, “Indeed, an arrangement which works to our mutual benefit, a clause which stipulates the bond remain unconsummated for a minimum period of five years from her majority. It allows the bond to be dissolved painlessly should a more compatible match be found in the interim.”

“Why the hell would they agree to that?”

“A soul-bond, sentimental rubbish or not, is infinitely more powerful, and it is therefore in the interests of The Tower to allow a period of grace should the candidates be deemed worthy. You on the other hand….” Mycroft answers his unspoken question, “Are easily the most potent Sentinel Dr Stapleton has assessed in the entirety of her illustrious career. Is it any surprise that simple truth will make you a target for the Moriarty’s son? You pose a threat to their future authority and they cannot have you run amok like a bloody loose cannon. They will bond you whether you’re wholly compatible or not.”

“So what you’re really trying to say, is that if I’m not with them I’m against them?”

“A simplistic analysis, but yes, I believe that’s how they see it, better within the fold so to speak.”

Sherlock looks across the room and catches Jim’s eye. “Then I’m against them,” he smiles, raising his glass in acknowledgement, aware his decision made last night in a drunken stupor sets him at odds with his Sentinel parent too.

“If there’s anything I can do to help…anything at all…” The uncharacteristic nature of the words makes Sherlock snap to attention; Mycroft retreats to the neutral space on the couch by the fire, and in seconds is embroiled in intense conversation with Anthea.

An echoing chime calls the room to attention.

Dinner is served.

Sherlock’s head is on the platter.

~*~

“Allow me, Mrs Holmes.”

“Oh, Charlotte, call me Charlotte Jim dear.” Charlotte Holmes beams widely as Jim pulls out the heavy oak chair.

She settles her bony arse on the seat simpering with pleasure at such easy manipulation. It is too damn simple sometimes. The woman is barely tolerable, and the only merit that Jim can see are the prominent cheekbones, tilted feline eyes and the unconscious elegance she has passed to her youngest son.

Jim steals a glance at him and a frisson of pleasure arcs along his spine - Sherlock looks delicious, a filthy-gorgeous, unpredictable mess. The blue suit hugs his slender form in all the right places and a multitude of the wrong ones too.

Definitely not bony.

Jim’s eyes sweep over Sherlock’s sizeable rump in open appreciation.

Sherlock scowls in return as he catches Jim staring, and turns his back to give him an even more breathtaking view.

Oh yes.

The incident with the Powers boy was….unfortunate, and his own subsequent loss of control, regrettable. But neither is Jim blind to who Sherlock is, the wild and forceful nature, the unchecked promiscuity. It will lend his inevitable taming an air of incomparable accomplishment. The most powerful Sentinel bent to his will.

To be inside that mind! His pulse kicks hard merely at the thought of it. The fire, how it burned him; the blinding pain of rejection when swept aside by unfathomable power. He will have him and conquer him if it’s the last thing he does.

The things they will do together, with a Guide in his rightful place at the pinnacle of power.

Jim steals a glance at his father. Better to let him continue to believe this unholy union is all his idea. When Sherlock is ready they will take him down together, the patronising old fool. He can almost smell the iron tang of blood and the crack of his skull as he crushes it beneath his foot.

But Sherlock has to agree to it first, which shouldn’t be a problem after what he has planned tonight.

Looking closer at his prize, he notes the white pallor of Sherlock’s skin, the thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, and a tremor in his right hand where it curls around his glass. Crash and burn baby – a chemical dependency, oh dear; Sherlock, high, at a society dinner party and coming down hard.

Jim smirks as an idea sparks into flame – push his buttons, get the juices flowing nicely then tip him over the edge.

He takes his seat, and Sherlock sits across from him at his mother’s insistence. It’s rather amusing to watch him squirm as if this is the last place on earth where he wants to be right now, which is perfectly true of course. But where exactly would he rather be?

Sherlock fiddles under the table with his head bowed, his soup growing colder by the minute in the bowl under the disapproving glare of his mother.

“Sherlock dear, don’t be rude, we have guests,” she says sternly, holding her hand out with a sigh. Sherlock slips the item in his pocket instead, no doubt texting his slutty little pals or that moronic Hooper girl. Jim allows himself a smirk of triumph. Enjoy it while you can, he thinks, stealing a glance at his platinum wristwatch, you won’t have this for very much longer Sherlock my dear.

Jim sits back, content to wait for his grand finale.

~*~

Sherlock scowls at the screen of his phone willing the damn thing to ring. He needs a little help to get through this excruciating dinner, the kind of help Victor is always happy to supply. He can meet him at the door, excuse himself to use the bathroom and his mother will never even notice.

But Mycroft will and Jim will too.

Sherlock ignores his mother’s exasperated sigh and pushes it back into his pocket. Jim smirks across the table and Sherlock’s skin prickles in response. Perhaps it’s for the best. The soup, a bland concoction of potato and leek assaults his olfactory system like a sledgehammer. Sherlock tries to subdue the sensation, something he has had more success with of late. It’s possible he finds, to switch between the senses at will, sort of push them back, mute them and bring the one he wants to use to the fore. But only it seems to work when rested and drug free, and he knows he is neither tonight.

No, tonight he’s firing on all five cylinders at once and this is why he’s the first to hear the crunch of gravel under the weight of heavy rubber tyres as two military vehicles coast up the driveway to the house. Mycroft shoots him an enquiring look as his head snaps to the front of the house. Seconds later, the harsh white light from the headlamps lances through the heavy twill drapes and floods the room in a stark fluorescent glow. Thick boots pound against stone, the front door shaking under the weight of four heavy blows.

“What on earth.” His mother throws down her napkin in annoyance.

Professor Moriarty looks up from his dinner plate. “Are you expecting company Charlotte dear?”

“Certainly not, Mycroft darling pop and see why they’re here, I’m sure there must be some mistake.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss the meaningful glance she shoots in his direction. He’s been arrested before on minor juvenile offences.

This is something more, Sherlock feels it, the aggression rippling through the building, increased heart rates, perspiration, a surge in testosterone and adrenaline. He frowns and makes his way across the room with Mycroft. His brother stops him just outside the door fingers digging roughly in his arm to hold him back.

“If you’ve done something please tell me now.”

There is fear there, something he has never observed in his brother. Before he can answer the knocks occur for a second time, and with a last desperate glance toward him, Mycroft stalks down the hall and wrenches open the wide oak door.

Sherlock sees how bad it is immediately, the official pink papers which signify an arrest warrant and the words sound hollow in his ears when a black clad official, armed and scowling looks straight past Mycroft as if he isn’t there and addresses Sherlock directly instead.

“Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes?”

“Yes,” he says, squaring his shoulders waiting for the blow he knows is about to fall.

He knew as soon as Jim entered the room, that his rejection of the contract was a given and therefore the choice would be taken from his hands.

“I hereby arrest you on suspicion of the murder of one Carl Robert Powers. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand sir?”

Mycroft’s face is bloodless, he hears his mother scream from somewhere very far away.

He holds out his arms and feels the ice-cold bite of thick metal handcuffs and Jim Moriarty stares at him coolly, raising his glass with a grin.

 

 

 

 


	7. Trust Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hard truths are revealed and alliances formed - when alone can't protect him anymore, Sherlock must reach out and learn to trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God this chapter is kicking my arse sideways! This is the first half of a much longer set-piece but I've decided you've all waited long enough for an update so I'm posting this as a chapter up to what feels like a natural stopping point. (It's still sizeable at approx 8K).  
> I'm so eager for Johnlock I'm practically screaming and it's sooo close now, I promise, so hang in there, it will be worth it (I hope) !!

_“Now tell me….Which is it to be?”_

The answer comes to Greg instantly and with surprising ease considering  his heightened state of fear, quick enough that he doesn’t have the chance to second-guess himself or back down, quick enough that the Sentinel currently pinning him to the floor doesn’t even have time to react or read it from the surface of his mind.

Greg lunges, and even though his arms are still firmly pinned at the wrists, and Sherlock sits square on his pelvis, it’s all the opening he needs, and years of childhood wrestling (courtesy of John Watson)lets him see the advantage and take it, grab it by the scruff of the metaphorical neck. Sherlock’s face is so close he can pick out every colour in those frighteningly intense eyes. Blue, green, gold and an incongruous freckle of muddy brown, a flaw.

Heaving his torso from the floor the middle of his brow connects solidly with the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. It doesn’t achieve the force he normally would had he been standing and not held down against his will, but it’s enough for a sickeningly satisfying crunch of cartilage, enough to make Sherlock let go of his wrists and throw himself backwards in genuine shock.

“Neither,” Greg hisses, “As if that was even a choice, you arse.”

A trickle of fresh red blood blooms between Sherlock’s fingertips where his hands are cupped around his nose. Some splashes on the cold white tile of the floor, drops splatter Sherlock’s chest, stain the front of his pyjama pants. One viscous red bead falls almost in slow motion and lands, soundless and warm on the skin of Greg’s outstretched arm.

Shit. What the hell has he just done?

Sherlock is still half astride him, one leg still slung across his shins, but Greg has the presence of mind to wriggle out from under him and scrambles backwards feeling it wise to put some distance between them.

Sherlock still doesn’t move. The alarms still mock with their silence. And now it’s just a waiting game, Greg and Sherlock, Guide and Sentinel. Sherlock blinks, cool, assessing. He reaches out and Greg flinches back reflexively, but it’s only to tug the sheet from the bed, his strong fingers ripping off a strip and using the material to dab  at his streaming nose.

The seconds stretch out endlessly until a rough, wet noise gurgles from Sherlock’s throat. Laughter, sardonic and low.

“I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you, you’ve drawn blood, congratulations….don’t think it will happen again.”

“You were a bit slow,” says Greg, mustering his remaining courage, “I thought you’d guess before I could stick one on you, no one’s more surprised than me.”

“Now that, I can believe….there were several possible outcomes, you happened to chance on the least anticipated…I’m…impressed, really.” The blood flow slows to an occasional tear-like drop, the faint blue stain of a soon-to-be bruise colours the bridge of his perfectly shaped nose. “You chose right by the way…it was a test not a choice.”

“So,” Greg says carefully, “you’re not going to break my neck or actually fuck me senseless then?”

“No,” Sherlock laughs, “Not today.”

Greg’s not quite sure if he’s joking. Prays that he is.

Perhaps he should be thankful he still has all his teeth.

Sherlock eases the red-soaked cloth from his face, prods tentatively at the bridge of his nose. He winces.

“Broken?”

“Ha! No, not quite, you spared me that indignity. Insufficient leverage,” Sherlock explains, confirming what Greg had thought all along. “You do, however, have a skull like cast iron, and I doubt it’s the first time you’ve done that.”

Greg relaxes a little. “Yeah, you’re right. Me and my best mate…. _Was_ my best mate, this lad I used to hang around with, we’d get into some epic fights with the kids from the next village. Never used to run, some of them twice our size…you learn things, useful things, stuff that could save your life.”

“Yes quite.”

“So what’s your story then?” Greg asks in genuine interest, keen to move on from this sensitive topic. If he’s any judge of character and appearance this kid is well used to the finer things in life, not scrapping in the street like him and John; it’s in the way he carries himself, poised and assured, effortless and elegant. He commands the space he occupies, almost demands the attention, drawing the eye with natural authority. And although Greg has never encountered a Sentinel before, he feels instinctively how unique Sherlock is even though he’s at a loss as to why he should think this way.

A rumble begins in Sherlock’s chest, a deep rich laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. And don’t think,” he says smiling through a blood-streaked face, “you will ever surprise me again, the outcome next time would be most…unpleasant.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s eyes flick to the gallery and back to Greg again.

Ah, too many ears. How could he forget?

Sherlock on the other hand appears to make a decision. “My story as you put it is irrelevant. I am here solely because of what I am not who I am or claim to be.”

Greg knows that can’t be true, whatever position Sherlock holds in the hierarchy is undoubtedly important. He’s young, so he may not be working for the Tower as yet, but he must have a family and a history. No Sentinel would choose to come here, so is he running, and if so, what is he running from or who is he running to?

“How did you know I wouldn’t choose to bond,” he asks, now a tentative peace has descended once again. Sherlock huffs at the question, sits down on the floor again cross-legged, moves closer. He could jump Greg in the time it would take him to blink, but he’s calm, posture relaxed and Greg needs to show that he trusts him or this is never going to work. He fights the swoop of panic as Sherlock’s bare foot nudges closer to his own.

“I knew you wouldn’t, “Sherlock begins, “saw it in you, the rest of them, on the other hand were practically salivating at the sight of me…most of them still are.”

Sherlock snaps his head round to the gallery and scowls derisively at the day shift staff, and because the audio feed is running some at least have the decency to look mildly embarrassed.

“I could have had any one of them, but I chose you, the only one guaranteed to keep his legs shut and his cock to himself.”

Greg splutters in embarrassment. Christ talk about laying it all out there. “Well, you know, I’m saving myself for…” he stammers before Sherlock dives in again, cutting him off abruptly. He shuffles forward and extends his leg so their feet finally touch.

 _“Oh, I know exactly what you’re saving yourself for. You could go through your entire life and never_ _find your perfect match, the majority never do, but you willingly bear that risk every day and it has absolutely nothing to do with the North’s dearth of Sentinels.”_

 Physical contact.

So that’s how it works.

 _“You wouldn’t understand_ ,” Greg snaps defensively, doubts if he’ll ever get used to his life being dissected like this. Sherlock is merciless, honing in on your deepest inner self like some sort of secret-seeking missile, mindless of the power he wields.

 _“On the contrary_ ,” says Sherlock, a clenched jaw betraying the tension he feels . _“I think I would.”_

Greg considers. “ _Okay, I’ll buy it, you’re not going to murder me in my sleep, neither of us want to bond, so what do we do, just….pretend?”_

_“Precisely. It’ll buy us some time at least. We’re going to use my brains and your…intimate knowledge of the castle to get us out of here.”_

_“You’re kidding, right?”_

_“I never kid Greg …Why? Don’t you want to leave?”_

_“Of course I do.”_

_“Well can I suggest you start trusting me, and we might just stand a chance.”_ Sherlock moves his foot away and the connection between them breaks, signalling the end of the conversation, which is just as well considering the curious glances cast their way from above. It must look even stranger if you don’t know what’s really going on, two teenage boys, touching without talking, staring into each other’s eyes. It must look like they….ah, right, Greg thinks as a flush of heat spreads slowly across his chest and he catches Sherlock’s eye again just as he gives a mischievous smirk. Despite what was said out loud the tactile body language, and what could be interpreted as a sexually charged atmosphere, must have spoken volumes.

 Well played you devious little shit.

~*~

Sherlock needs to think.

They’re not actively trying to flood him anymore, the white noise has gone, the temperature is ambient and the overhead lights no longer hurt his eyes so much, but he still feels fuzzy and weak from the drugs he was given the day before. He takes another long look at the Guide, Greg Lestrade, the one he has chosen, and for a brief moment questions whether he’s actually lost his mind this time. No, Sherlock is certain he’s the one, the only one here who can help him, and his reactions so far confirm this. The acceptance of the telepathic bond, the unequivocal rejection of Sherlock’s ultimatum, he has courage, and has yet to succumb to the hive mind of the Castle. Sherlock rubs his nose ruefully. The blood flow has stopped now, but it still feels swollen and there’s a dull persistent ache behind his eyes, and from what he can glimpse of his reflection in the glass, the bruising has yet to fully develop.

Greg is understandably wary despite their tentative truce, and when the buzzer that signals the arrival of lunch sounds, his eyes dart around the room as if he has forgotten yesterday’s routine. Perhaps he has, delayed shock. Sherlock has had time to adjust to imprisonment, Greg on the other hand has had his liberty torn from under him without any real choice or warning. He’s taking it surprisingly well Sherlock thinks, all things considered.

Sherlock approaches the small metal hatch by the door and takes out two wrapped bundles and two skins of water. Greg perches warily on the edge of the bed and frowns when Sherlock drops the bundle in his lap.

“What the hell is this?”

“Food,” Sherlock says, “And I suggest you eat it, it’s very nearly edible compared to the abomination that passed for last night’s dinner.”

“Christ, what was it?”

“God knows,” he says, hitching his arse up to sit on the bed beside him. “Some nameless dead animal in putrid brown slop with something green on the side, and I swear to god it moved. The resulting splatter pattern when I threw it at the wall was quite beautiful, however.”

Greg laughs, “Oh my God, I wish I’d seen that….and it was beef and broccoli in case you were wondering, we all had it, and it really wasn’t that bad.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and thinks that Greg must be rather easy to please in that case, picks at a dried crust of bread, carefully lifting the edge to see what’s underneath. It flops back down and he places it on the bed beside him untouched.

Sherlock can hear the Guide’s stomach growl, but Greg stops, sandwich half-way to his mouth and raises an eyebrow in enquiry. “Why aren’t you eating then?” He looks at the food in his hand in suspicion.

Sherlock sighs dramatically, tilting back until he rests on his elbows. “Digesting slows me down.”

“Yeah, and so does starvation, and you said yourself dinner’s awful so you need this.” But Greg doesn’t press him further. He’ll eat when his transport demands it, but right now he needs to concentrate on finding a way to escape. He nudges Greg aside with his foot so that he can lie down fully on the bed. He hears Greg draw in a breath to protest and cuts him dead. “Shut up, I’m thinking.”

“I never said a word.”

“No, but you were going to.”

“Are you always so….”

“What?”

“I don’t know…so bloody annoying.”

Sherlock cracks open one eye and glares. “Get used to it, I don’t get any better.”

Greg grunts in reply, mutters “You don’t say?” sarcastically under his breath, but Sherlock barely hears him, drifting now, sifting through the days new data. Three second time delay between the opening of the airlock and Greg’s entry into the chamber, two accompanying guards, armed, increased heart rate, inexperienced and showing it, both of them. Six observational staff, at least four in constant attendance, fifteen minute rest- breaks at two hour intervals. Overseer’s, two, appearances sporadic, no discernible pattern.  There has to be a way. Sherlock adds this information to what he’s already learnt about the castle. Impossible. He needs more data.

He wakes to the sound of the alarm and a warm heavy weight on his legs with no sense of time having passed, like being anesthetised. Damn those drugs, they’re probably in the water too, a low dose to keep him aware but subdued. If they don’t move soon, neither of them will have the will to fight back against this, assuming Greg’s water has been tainted too.

“What’s wrong?” Greg prods him in the side, his voice rough from sleep which he shouldn’t have needed so soon after a full nights rest. Confirmation of his hypothesis does little to allay Sherlock’s growing sense of unease as Greg asks groggily, “Did we do something wrong? Why the alarm?”

Sherlock sits up, nauseous and dizzy and notes the red light above the airlock. “Someone’s coming,” he says, gripping Greg’s arm to steady himself while the room spins, and he blinks away the blurred edges from his vision. Warm, safe, he thinks, the heat of Greg’s skin against his palm, surprised at how comfortable he feels. Sherlock hates physical contact and months on the run have only served to compound his aversion. The room stops moving and Sherlock hums in understanding.

Not just someone, _something._

Armed guards force them to stand and direct them over to the far west wall, furthest away from the door while the room is stripped and a new, bigger bed brought in with soft covers and plump pillows in place of thin cotton sheets. “Oh my god,” Greg mutters, “We’re really not getting out of here are we?”

“That appears to be the case,” Sherlock agrees, arms above his head.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Greg is visibly shaking, which is largely understandable while staring down the barrel of an automatic rifle, Sherlock thinks, but it seems to be the bed that scares him rather than the gun pointed directly in his face.

Sherlock glances from the bed to Greg then back again, and does the only thing that makes sense to him, the only thing that he _can_ do. He holds out a hand, fingers touching.

_“Take me to bed and I’ll tell you.”_

Greg’s eyes go wide. “ _What?”_

_“Oh god, you really have to get over this. I have no desire to fuck you, either now or at any point in the future, it’s just easier to touch you in bed without raising suspicion. We will however, have to at least make it look convincing.”_

_“That really isn’t helping you know.”_

_“Oh, come on,”_ Sherlock squeezes his fingers, ignoring the rifle, and the tremor in the finger of the guard who is holding it. “ _Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before?”_

Greg tenses, “ _That’s none of your bloody business kid.”_

 _“So you have?”_ Sherlock chuckles.

_“Shut the hell up.”_

_~*~_

_“Tell me about the South,”_ Greg says. They are lying on their sides in bed, Greg in front with his back to Sherlock’s chest with the soft, thick covers pulled up around their shoulders, having finally put aside his embarrassment.  Sherlock has an arm draped over Greg’s waist, his cheek pressed against the back of his neck, breathing in his comforting scent. He feels calm for the first time since he’s been here. It smells like home, familiar in a way he can’t quite place. He pushes this aside for now, and gathers his scattered thoughts to answer.

_“Well it’s not some fairy tale realm of Sentinel privilege, if that’s what you think. It’s much like the North I suppose, just with better technology, more money, people and crowded dirty cities.”_

_“So,”_ Greg laughs, “ _Nothing like the North at all then, really.”_

 _“I suppose you’re right,”_ Sherlock concedes _, “I was in school, before I came here, a place called the Academy a breeding ground for suck-ups, just desperate to sign up for the Tower and fuck-ups like me. I hated it, got in trouble all the time for skiving off and getting high every weekend, I took enough drugs to start my own chemists. I suppose I was trying to escape even then, I’m a freak you see, even amongst Sentinel’s. You know about the senses right?”_ He feels Greg nod his head, the tendons in his neck moving against Sherlock’s cheek _, “Well most have only one or two enhancements or talents, some like to call them. I’ve got all five, and no one knows why, and quite possibly a sixth.”_

_“And that’s why you ran?”_

_“God no, but let’s just say I managed to attract the wrong sort of attention, from the wrong sort of people because of it.”_

_“I’ll bet you did.”_ Greg hums in agreement.

 _“Believe me, it’s not what you think, it’s infinitely worse as a matter of fact.”_ Sherlock snaps, and Greg must catch the sudden flash of anger and frustration rushing through him, and his body tenses automatically. Sherlock pulls his head back a little, speaks to the chocolate brown hair on Greg’s nape. _“It’s just…sorry, I didn’t mean to make you nervous. I just get so fucking angry you know, months on my own searching for something I might never find all because some evil little bastard_ _decided to play mind games and fuck around with my life because I didn’t want him.”_

Greg wriggles a little, and turns, first to his back and then over so they face each other. Even though the conversation can’t be heard, he hitches the covers up over their heads for privacy. It’s warm and white inside, like a cocoon. _“Why are you really here?”_ he asks softly, _“And not the edited version, I mean everything.”_

Sherlock stares hard, searching Greg’s face for a sign he can trust him and then he sighs in resignation. He has to let someone in, he can’t do this on his own anymore. It’s been too long and he’s tired, so he takes a deep breath and continues. _“I was….accused of something and was arrested, imprisoned awaiting trial, so I’m on the run officially and have been for the last sixteen months.”_

Greg sucks in a breath _. “Christ, what the hell did you do?”_

 _“I didn’t do anything.”_ Sherlock stresses, because what he says next will be make or break, he knows that, “ _But I was charged with the murder of a boy at my school, and there are witnesses from the night he died ready to swear that I drowned him in a swimming pool at a party we both were at.”_

_“Holy shit….and did you?”_

_“No….I thought I already made that clear. Yes, we argued that night, or him and two of his mates beat the crap out of me if that counts, but people are open to persuasion, will believe almost anything given the right sort of encouragement.”_

_“What does that mean….someone paid them off, paid them to lie?”_

_“Not quite,”_ Sherlock answers, realising with a shudder that he’s facing the very same enemy again, right here. _“They were….compromised, if you like.”_

_“I’m not sure I get it.”_

_“You’re a Guide for god’s sake, use your imagination.”_

Greg furrows his brow in concentration and then shakes his head in defeat. “ _Nah, you got me.”_

_“You still use empathy right? To change mood, calm people down in heightened situations don’t you? Forget about guiding Sentinels, that’s not important, but think about what it could mean, the power to alter a mental state of being. It’s not an impossible leap to presume they were persuaded to…do as they were told to.”_

_“That’s….that’s sick, you mean some sort of weird fucking mind control shit?”_

_“Perhaps. I’m not in possession of all the facts, therefore it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions, but the evidence would seem to suggest something of the sort.”_

_“Who the hell could pull something like that off…they’d have to be quite high up, or very bloody organised to interfere with witnesses and stuff wouldn’t they?”_

Sherlock casts his eyes down, his hands clamped tight between his knees. He shivers despite the enveloping warmth as Jim’s cold, dead eyes appear in the forefront of his mind. He’s mostly succeeded in keeping this at bay, the stomach churning memory of Jim’s hands on his skin. It makes him feel weak that he couldn’t fight back or fight harder. His refusal to become Jim’s possession means Jim wants to take everything from him, strip him bare; everything he loves, his last shred of dignity.

 _“Sherlock?”_ Greg prompts, with a light touch to his arm.

 _“Moriarty,”_ he says. It’s barely a whisper in his mind. He feels Greg’s surprise, the way his body draws back, the rigid set of his limbs. Of course, the North is not some cultural wasteland, and Greg will be fully versed on the power dynamics of the Tower and its leaders, headed by Sentinel Prime Moriarty. It doesn’t get much worse. To run up against the most influential and dangerous family in the country – Sherlock may just as well have signed his own death warrant. Father- son, it makes no real difference. Their influence is everywhere, and how can you hope to fight shadows?

 _“But….”_ Greg stammers, “ _How did you get out then….if you were locked up, that is? They didn’t just let you out did they?”_

 _“Friends.”_ Sherlock says simply. He’s not ready to share this particular chapter of the whole sordid story, because here, he is guilty. He has to remember he’s doing this for them, for Molly and Victor, who have never deserved what has happened to them. And all because they cared. Good friends, the best of friends, who sacrificed themselves for him. He doesn’t deserve them, doesn’t deserve anyone, he’s toxic, should be alone, but alone doesn’t work, and it’s not just about him anymore. He has to go back, and at least he stands a fighting chance if he returns as one half of a soul bond.

 _“So how the hell did you end up in here and why? It’s a bit risky these days for one of your lot.”_ Greg prompts, pulling him back to the present.

 _“Human error,”_ Sherlock states blankly. A phrase that covers a multitude of sins, and none of which he attempts to clarify. Let Greg draw his own conclusions on this one, there is only one thing that he needs to know at this point. _“I came here for my Guide.”_

_“And how do you know your Guide’s here in the North?”_

_“The same way that you know yours is in the South.”_

Greg lets out an audible gasp which Sherlock hopes will be interpreted as something quite different by their captors, concealed as they are from the cameras. Sherlock kicks his shin gently as a warning anyway to pull Greg mentally back on track. It doesn’t work.

_“What….how….no one’s supposed to know that…how the hell can you….shit….oh my god… I don’t believe it.”_

_“You needn’t be quite so dramatic, it’s another reason why I chose you. You’re no ordinary Guide are you Greg, you have an animal in the spirit world. But here, that’s almost like an urban myth belonging purely in the realm of fantasy. Nobody told you, did they, but you realised immediately the danger you were in as soon as you manifested fully.”_

Sherlock knew a little of the ancient superstitions. Spirit animals were the rarest of all manifestations. There seemed to be a distinct correlation between the strength of the Sentinel or Guide and the appearance of the animal and as such, Guides like Greg would be prized by the Tower and matched only to the very strongest of his kind. There was a problem with this system however, the existence of a spirit animal also meant the existence of a perfect match, whilst the likelihood of a soul-bond increased exponentially. The connection may already be present, and then all they have to do is to find each other. He knows this, is living it now, but it’s easier said than done, as he is learning to his cost.

 For Sherlock the need is more urgent than most, his strength means his true Guide is the only one who can withstand his mind.

 _“It was just a glimmer at first you know,”_ Greg begins hesitantly,  “ _like dreams, just really weird dreams…but then it started happening at other times too, when I was tired or ill or drunk.”_

_“Why come here then…wouldn’t it have been safer to stay away from this compound?”_

_“Well yeah, I can see that now but there were other things you know….my dad’s sick and I need the family health benefits. It couldn’t just wait for my brothers and sisters, by then it would’ve been too late for him. Plus, it was starting to get out of control. I wasn’t a Guide back then, but Gran said that’s how it started for her so we thought the best thing to do would be to train at the castle but keep my mouth shut about the spirit animal, it worked for a bit….the Lestrades are a Guide family, no one supposed that I’d be any different.”_

_“What stopped you….telling anyone here I mean?”_

_“She took me out. I was flying over the castle and out to sea, and it wasn’t just a dream this time, it felt different you know, real, and I was the bird, but I wasn’t at the same time, like looking through somebody else’s eyes, but not being them, like you’ve borrowed their body but they’re still in it. And it was dark, the sea was so rough that night if I’d fallen in I’d be dead, would’ve split my skull like falling on concrete. I could feel the splash of the waves, taste the salt on the air. But then we cut inland again but it was different from home, so many lights I couldn’t see the stars anymore, and the Tower, I saw the fucking Tower so I knew where I was then and I panicked, I thought they were trying to take me.”_

_“And then what?”_

Greg shrugs, “ _I woke up, the alarm went off for morning duty and I thought it really had been a dream, but it kept on happening, the same place every time. And I don’t know how I kept my power under wraps, I just did, okay?”_ He adds defensively _. “But, yeah, that’s been busted wide open now hasn’t it, you’ve put my entire family in danger by exposing me.”_

Sherlock scoffs in disbelief _. “Me? Oh no Greg, you put yourself in the firing line the day you made the decision to hide away here, someone was bound to find out eventually. How long did you have left – Months? Weeks? Days?”_

_“It won’t help you know, It only gets stronger….that itch that you long to scratch and knowing there’s only one damn person in the whole fucking world with even the slightest chance to satisfy that…urge.”_

_“Christ….do you have to make it sound like….”_

“Sex?” Sherlock interrupts, impatient now. “ _Yes, that’s a fundamental part of it, the driving force if you will. But imagine it Greg, complete synchronicity of body and mind….bond forged in steel. I need my Guide or I’m as good as dead. Dead if I stay and dead if I go back.”_

Sherlock finds it hard to conceal the tone of resentment in his voice. The need to bond makes him vulnerable and Sherlock hates to admit needing anyone at all, let alone a Guide. Sherlock ruins everything he touches, taints and corrupts it, and now he’s dragging Greg into this mess too, and what’s in it for him? He’ll lose his job, his position and quite possibly his life.

But Greg isn’t thinking about any of this, he’s still stuck on the sex thing like a typical horny teenage boy. Perhaps it’s for the best. Ignorant bliss. _“So….erm,”_ Greg asks curiously, “ _What if, hypothetically speaking you prefer…erm…boys and your match is a girl, what then?” He looks up at Sherlock hopefully._

Sherlock blinks in confusion for a second wondering if he’s overestimated Greg’s intelligence. _“Have you listened to a word I’ve said? They wouldn’t be your perfect match then, would they, and boy-girl is such a narrow way to categorise anyway, don’t you think? Sexual preference is the keystone, total compatibility.”_

 _“Ah,”_ Greg says, “ _So you’re looking for a boy I take it?”_

 _“Clearly.”_ Sherlock snaps, although it isn’t strictly framed as a question, more of a definite statement. _“As are you,”_ he then adds with a smirk, just to see the warm pink flush that creeps up Greg’s skin.

 _“So,”_ he says finally, letting five uncomfortable minutes pass, in which Greg ponders the question of his newly outed sexuality. _“Time to start work on our escape plan.”_

_“So we’re really going to do this, break out of a maximum security cell with no weapons, no clothes and an entire castle full of highly trained muscle trying to stop us?”_

_“Yes,”_ says Sherlock with a grin. _“Isn’t it exciting?”_

 _“You’re bloody insane”_ Greg groans, “ _we’ll die.”_

_“Quite a high possibility, but if we stay, there’s a high chance they’ll kill us eventually anyway, do you want to stick around to find out?”_

~*~

The first chance comes that evening, when armed guards appear to escort them to a washroom before they bed down for the night. They’re taken individually of course, Sherlock first, bound loosely at the ankles to stop him from kicking out or running away. He doesn’t plan to, not yet. Tonight is for assessing their tactical advantages or lack thereof.

The two guards who brought him here take up positions either side of the door of a clinical, white-tiled room with a shower, a sink and a stainless steel bowl bracketed to the wall, the stink of it turns his stomach knowing necessity will force him to use it. He feels their eyes on him as he strips, tossing the blood-stained clothing aside carelessly before he steps into the tiny transparent shower cubicle. He scowls in defiance as their eyes rake over him, but resists the urge to turn his back. Sherlock has never been self-conscious, understands in an abstract way that others find him physically attractive, (a fact he’s taken enthusiastic advantage of on numerous occasions,) but he knows this type of voyeuristic leering has nothing to do with appreciation, it’s designed to compound his humiliation. But the cool soft patter of water on his skin is more than welcome after two full days in the confines of the cell with only a bucket to piss in, so he stays beneath the gentle spray as long as he can, reveling in it. He’s spent too many weeks and months bathing in freezing streams in the hills and forests, and his fair share of cracked and filthy sinks in stinking public toilets when desperate. This feels like heaven by comparison, there’s even a liquid soap, a sickly yellow in colour which he lathers onto his body in thick, slippery dollops that to most would be odourless, but to him carries a faint antiseptic scent. He uses the last of it on his hair, carding through the thick dark curls which have already grown out from his make-shift hair-cut last month. Strands hacked off and sawn at in a haphazard fashion with the increasingly blunt blade of the Swiss army knife, kept in the shallow front pocket of his jeans. A shave is out of the question, probably scared he’ll secrete the razor blade and use it as a makeshift shank.

He spares a glance to the clean, thin cotton t-shirt and pants folded neatly on a plastic chair outside the shower door. Loose and ill-fitting as they are, they leave little to the imagination and any foreign object would be clearly visible underneath them.

“Out.” The sharp bark of the older guard makes him jump. The water shuts off automatically and Sherlock curses at the missed opportunity to drink. This water is unlikely to be tainted, and in trying not to ingest the water brought with their meals, his head pounds faintly and his limbs feel tired and heavy. It’s not something he can maintain long-term which means they need to leave soon.

Sherlock dabs ineffectually with the scratchy, over-washed towel trying not to think of the myriad of sweaty bodies that have used the cloth before him. He should be over this now, after months living rough because no matter how many times it’s been washed, residual genetic material clings between the tiny fibres. He takes him time, let’s his skin dry naturally before dressing in the clean clothes and squeezing the excess water from his hair. It’s obvious he’s stalling, as he braves the disgusting loo, wishing he’d used it before getting into the shower, but time outside the cell is vital to uncover the workings of the castle itself and its occupants, and he needs these precious extra minutes to commit these faces to memory to describe to Greg later. Fortyish, twenty pounds overweight with an undetected arrhythmia, type two diabetes and hyperhidrosis (medical grade deodorant and yellow stains under the armpits) married, unhappily, two children, both mute, has been sexually active within the last two days with a female employee. Nothing he can use here, the man has nothing to recommend him other than his patent stupidity. The older guard clicks his tongue in irritation. “Get a move on, for god’s sake….thought you’d be dying to get back to your brand new boyfriend for another round of hide the sausage.” He chuckles, so pleased with his pathetic joke he unwisely continues, “Or maybe one of our lot aint good enough for his highness eh?” He nudges his companion expecting his agreement and laughter but instead, the young guard curls his lip in anger.

“Shut it Davis, I don’t think Lestrade signed up for this do you?” he gestures to Sherlock, avoids eye contact.

“Yeah well,” the old guard snaps, obviously unrepentant, “never took him for an arse-bandit either, just goes to show, you never know who you’ll end up sharing a bunk with do you? You’re better off without him Murray, be thankful.”

Sherlock stays silent, let’s them talk even though he’s seething inside, hands trembling with the longing to wrap them around that worthless fat throat. Nothing changes it seems, after all this time and distance, a different place and it’s the same damn homophobic ignorance. It makes sense. Every action taken so far against him suggests they barely regard him as human, but he feigns disinterest in the argument in order to gather more data, gritting his teeth as the young guard, Murray bends down to re-attach his ankle restraints before he leaves the confines of the washroom at gun point. A short stretch of corridor with no other doors or windows leads back to the cell, and he counts three seconds again before the airlock opens and he steps back inside to Greg. Sherlock convinces himself that Greg looks almost relieved to see him, but this small comfort is short-lived as the butt of a rifle in the small of his back reminds the boy that he is not the one in charge anymore. If it were only him he would chance it and try to take them on, but Greg could be caught in the crossfire , and he couldn’t bear that on his conscience, and besides, they are more than outnumbered in reality. The weapons keep them apart as the restraints are unlocked and the Guide takes his place on the other side of the airlock door, brow furrowed in concern (unfettered, not considered a danger like he was, could use to advantage at some point). The door seals shut behind him.

Sherlock sinks to the floor, hugs his knees to his chest and fights the urge to lash out in frustration. Nothing. No obvious escape route, round the clock monitoring, only one small detail Sherlock thinks that they could use. So Murray is Greg’s bunk-mate? Or at least knows him well enough to defend him against the insults of the older man. Friend? Possibly.  Greg is personable, must have been popular amongst his peers. This guard may prove someone sympathetic at the least, and any small chink in the armour of the castle has to be exploited.

Sherlock scans the gallery. It’s strange to be alone again like this, and stranger to acknowledge the instant connection he feels with Greg and how edgy he feels now he’s gone, if only for a short while. Ericsson is back, he notes, his pallid expressionless face makes the hair at Sherlock’s nape prickle, and their eyes lock for a moment, a mocking smile playing on the lips of the older man.  

What the hell is his game?

Sherlock breaks eye contact first, burying his head between his knees to block out the stark white light of the cell. He doesn’t see the glint of triumph in Ericsson’s eyes, doesn’t need to, he can feel the man’s gloating presence from here. He thinks he’s won, that he has the upper hand. Sherlock fears he may be right this time. Never, in the sixteen months he’s been running has he felt so utterly helpless and trapped. All Sherlock can do now is wait; for Greg to come back, for this twisted game to unfold ad unravel him.

 _Game,_ he thinks sucking in a breath, _game,_ Moriarty’s game -that’s it.

Sherlock pushes up from the floor and paces the room in agitation. He hears the footsteps before he sees him, Greg, flanked by the same two guards as before, weapons pointed to the floor this time. This changes when they see Sherlock, and it’s hardly surprising given the rush of restless energy which has him stalking the room like an animal in a cage again. They cast nervous glances to the gallery, probably wondering if reinforcements will be necessary, but Sherlock tries to contain himself, moves to the other side of the bed to put a solid barrier between him and them. It seems to reassure, and they motion for Greg to re-enter the cell. He steps inside.

“What’s wrong with you, you’re practically bouncing off the walls,” he asks warily, standing barely inside the room even after the lock clicks shut, as if he’s scared to come closer even though they’ve spent the better part of the day in a bed together, talking.

“For god’s sake Greg, don’t look at me like that, I’m just working off a little excess energy, there’s nothing _wrong_ with me” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if to demonstrate but in reality does little to put Greg at ease. His mind races, he can feel his body speeding out of control like the rush he gets when high. It should be alarming but instead he feels alive, and he leaps up onto the bed like a cat, scoots across the mattress and jumps to the floor on the other side, landing silently. He flashes a playful smile.

Greg grins back shoulders visibly relaxing, “I was right, you are bloody mad.” He walks towards Sherlock and butts a shoulder against his arm. “ _I get it, you can’t talk like this, what do you want to do about it, tell me now or wait until lights out?”_

 _“Now”._ Sherlock pulls at his arm insistently, drags him back up on the bed and shoves at the covers with his feet, and despite it being much too hot, almost suffocating, he pulls them up over them both, lying curled in a ball, facing a damp and surprised Greg.

 _“I’ve been an idiot,”_ he begins, “ _I thought they might be drugging our food and that’s why we both fell asleep, something even my senses missed, I should have realised that was impossible, trusted myself a little more, but it’s not that at all, don’t you remember, I told you? Moriarty and the_ _witnesses, setting me up on false charges?”_ Sherlock is aware of the rambling nature of what he’s saying and the desperate way he grips Greg’s biceps, begging him to understand this.

 _“What’s he got to do with all this?”_ Greg frowns, and his voice turns suddenly panicked.   _“He hasn’t found out that you’re here, has he?”_

_“No, no, what I mean is, that’s what’s going on here in the castle. It was staring me in the face the whole time, the way this place is like a bloody hive mind, and that’s exactly it Greg, control on a massive scale using empathy.”_

Sherlock stills, body rigid as he strains to listen.

 _“Sherlock?”_ Greg searches his face, shakes him a little when he squeezes his eyes closed in concentration.

 _“They’re coming for you,”_ Sherlock gasps, _“There are three…no, four, Ericsson just gave an order we have to be quick.”_

_“What the….?”_

_“Listen….concentrate, can you feel them, the others, the ones in the gallery?”_ Sherlock sits up, pushes back the covers so they can see. _“Tell me,”_ he says urgently, “ _what do they feel?”_

Thank god Greg doesn’t question him, just scans the room, taking in each face and pausing before moving on to the next, _“Tired?”_ he tries,   _“Hungry? Bored? Horny Oh god she fancies you.”_

Sherlock loosens his grip with a sigh. _“So what does that all add up to?”_

Greg shakes his head _, “I really don’t know.”_

_“Compromised….and therefore suggestable. Conclusion – we need to play them at their own game, and that’s how we’re going to get out of here. Get ready.”_

_“For what?”_ Greg sounds slightly panicked as if he’s anticipating an imminent fight. He’s not far wrong Sherlock thinks as the sound of the alarm rips through the cell again. No time left, Greg has to understand…

_“They’re coming for you not me, go quietly, don’t fight it, they might….do something…. before you leave, I’m producing too much adrenaline, can’t help it….I think they’re going to take me down, just let them.”_

_“Take you down? Sherlock, what the hell?”_

Four guards approach, Murray, the older guard from the washroom and one of the others he recognises from the night he flipped out. Of course, Sherlock sighs breathing deeply through his nose to calm himself. It won’t be so bad, and it’s not as if he can run, perhaps they won’t restrain him this time if he makes it clear he doesn’t plan to fight them.

 They both stand up in anticipation as the lock opens.

“Face the wall, hands where I can see them.” The older guard shouts at Greg, nudging him away from Sherlock with the butt of his rifle.

Shit, they’re not going to lead Greg out first, they’re going to shoot him right here, in front of him.

What if he does something stupid, like the good-hearted idiot he is? What if Sherlock has misjudged this and they don’t let Greg come back? He has to, he just has to.

“Move!” the guard barks sharply and Greg flattens his body against the glass at the foot of the bed, his palms leave a sweaty sheen on the pristine surface above his head.

Murray covers Greg, two others move to Sherlock’s sides. He stares ahead, can hear Greg’s panting breaths, the pounding of the blood in his veins as if they’re still connected. A stab of cold fear runs through him. There is a noise like a whip crack as the trigger is depressed at close range. He feels pain. Like the flick of an elastic band against the skin of his right thigh, cutting straight through cotton to the skin underneath.

Greg’s head snaps round and the muzzle of a handgun is pressed to the back of his neck in warning and it’s the last thing Sherlock sees before his vision white’s- out and his body sinks slowly to the floor.

~*~

 


	8. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected opportunity gives the boys a chance to break for freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have said a few days ago in comments that this chapter would be up on Thursday - but yet again I underestimated how long it would take to write and my own unfortunate capacity for extreme procrastination. So, apologies for that.
> 
> I also might have jokingly said I didn't want this story to turn into a 22 episode season of Prison Break - and then I remembered how they broke out and I thought, Hmmm....  
> So, I've been channeling my inner Michael Schofield this chapter, and this is my little homage the the gorgeous former occupants of cell 40, Fox River State Penitentiary. (Except without full torso and sleeve tattoos which are really blue prints of the building, and no little white paper cranes!)
> 
> The chapter title is from episode 22 of Prison Break: Season 1
> 
> Musical inspiration this chapter (In anticipation of impending Johnlock)  
> -Room To Breathe - You Me At Six  
> -Can You Feel My Heart - Bring Me The Horizon

 

 

They wait a long interminable minute before someone steps forward and shoves Sherlock with the toe of a boot.

“He’s out sir,” Greg hears a voice say as he is ushered at gun-point out into the corridor again, but he doesn’t get the chance to turn around and check if Sherlock is alright before the door locks shut and cuts Greg off from the other boy. He turns his frustration and anger on the guard to his left, someone until today he’d considered his closest friend in this place. He feels like an idiot more than anything else. Sherlock is right, this place is beyond corrupt, and it’s not the first time someone’s tried to make him see sense, John warned him of this a long time ago. John Watson, god, what he wouldn’t give to see the kid again, and that damn village that he swore ten times over he was glad to see the back of.

He rounds on Murray in anger, “You can’t bloody tell me this is right, what just went on in there?” he jerks his thumb backwards towards the cell as they march him back down the long white corridor.

“Shut it Lestrade, you should know that I’m just following orders….and anyway,” he adds, remembering the alteration in their status, “we’re not supposed to interact with you.”

“Oh for – seriously?” Greg growls, “Three years we’ve known each other and after one bloody day this is what it comes down to? We had breakfast together in the mess hall just this morning and what, now you treat me like I’m some sort of fucking criminal?”

 He can’t kept the tremor from his voice and he hates it, hates the loss of control, hates that he feels so vulnerable and cheated. These men are supposed to be his colleagues and his friends, but they’re acting like Sherlock is a bomb that’s just about to detonate, and he’s not, he’s really not Greg thinks, because the truth is, whatever this kid is, in a few short hours he’s opened Greg’s eyes to the real enemy and it sure as hell isn’t some smart-arse tattooed teenager.

“He’s just a normal kid for god’s sake,” he continues when no one responds, “got a bit of a mouth on him, I get that, yeah, but you could say that about half the idiots in our dorm mate. He didn’t do anything except get caught by the patrol with no papers and you lot just storm in tonight and drop him for no fucking reason”.

“Getting a bit attached are we?”

“Sod off,” Greg snaps, “it’s called basic human decency, something I thought us Guides were supposed to be good at, but I guess I was wrong. This place is toxic can’t you see?”

Murray at least has the decency to look guilty, unable to look Greg in the eye, but the other one, Davis, an idiot who in fifteen years has never progressed beyond a lowly security rank cuts in instead, all bravado and no brains, hiding behind his weapon.

 Greg despises him.

“Watch it Lestrade,” Davis yells, “everyone knows your best mate thinks you’re a traitor, doesn’t he, old Johnny Watson? Or are you planning on turning against the Castle now with your pretty little boyfriend? I think maybe you should shut the hell up and think about where you loyalties lie.”

“Loyalty?” Greg scoffs at the blatant irony, and the sheer pig-headed ignorance of the man, “Shoved in a cell and held at gunpoint and you talk about _fucking_ _loyalty_?”

The muzzle of a gun jabs him in the small of the back, the metal like ice against his skin. “That’s enough Lestrade, you’ve already been warned more than once, keep it up and next time, woops, my finger might just slip.”

Greg’s lip curls automatically, but the insult poised there dies on his lips at the warning look on Murray’s face, as brow furrowed, he gives the slightest almost imperceptible shake of the head. Greg’s not sure what it means yet, if anything, but in the absence of any other choice he follows the order through gritted teeth. It won’t help Sherlock and they might not let him go back to the cell. And he has to go back. He wants to.

He is taken to a room off the corridor to the left of the observation deck where Ericsson waits with a sickly smile and a steaming pot of coffee. He motions Greg to sit, pouring hot fragrant liquid into a small china cup, adds two heaped sugars and stirs slowly, tapping the spoon off on the side. It’s a surprise that they are alone, the guards stationed outside the door.

“Mr Lestrade,” the smile is obsequious, gloating, as he presses the delicate china to his lips, “how good of you to join us…I would offer you a cup perhaps, but it wouldn’t do to be overstimulated now would it?” he smirks, as Greg slides down into the seat on the opposite side of the wide white desk and rests his hands loosely in his lap.

 “Not that I had much choice,” he snaps sullenly, eyes fixed on his nervously twisting fingers, determined not to look at the man. There is a long black leather couch in the corner, restraints attached at wrist and ankle level; Greg’s eyes dart nervously towards it despite his resolve to appear unconcerned, and Ericsson tracks the direction of his gaze with barely suppressed amusement.

“Haha, no, indeed, I merely wished to see how you’re getting along with your assignment, I trust we’ve made you quite comfortable, that you find the accommodation to your liking?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Greg barks, anger flaring in his chest.

But Ericsson just gives a put-upon sigh and chooses to ignore his outburst. He places his elbows on the desk, links his fingers and rests his chin on the cradle of his hands, deep in thought. “You know,” he starts slowly, “what’s particularly of interest Mr Lestrade, is how much time you appear to have spent gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. And one can only speculate what’s going on ‘undercover’ so to speak. Would you like me to hazard a guess perhaps, or would you prefer to enlighten me? Nothing too graphic,” he waves a hand dismissively, “the general idea will suffice.” He pauses then, as if waiting for Greg to gather his thoughts , takes a sip of his coffee and looks up at him expectantly. “Pardon? You’ll have to speak up now, I didn’t quite catch that,” he cups a hand around his ear.

“It’s none of your damn business.” Greg stares down at his clenched hands, itching with an urge to punch. But that won’t get him anywhere and he knows he has to get back to the cell, to Sherlock. It’s all hanging by a thread, and this defiance isn’t helping, but he can’t seem to stop his true feelings bleeding out.

“Oh well, that’s where you’re wrong,” says Ericsson, as if in confirmation of his fears, “It’s very much my business considering you were placed there specifically to perform a duty and report back to me as and when requested. But as you seem to be less than forthcoming, let me tell you what we’ve learned today….we’ve discovered something rather fascinating. There seems to be a particularly unusual level of brain activity whenever you’re in close proximity to the Sentinel, physically touching specifically. Did you really think it would go unnoticed?”

Greg doesn’t know what he’d thought, what either of them had thought to be honest. Perhaps they hadn’t thought at all.

Had Sherlock been aware this might happen?

“Just trying to win his trust sir like you asked me to.”

“Yes, I can see that. And what exactly is _he_ trying to _win_ do you suppose?”

Greg’s face flames with embarrassment at the less than subtle implication. “It’s not – no, he doesn’t want me – not like that.”

“Doesn’t he? Well – that is most….disappointing,” Ericsson sighs, “perhaps we should assign someone else, someone more amenable. It was a prime objective after all.”

“No!” Greg cries in panic, “You can’t, I mean he trusts me I think, and _he chose me_ like you said he could….just give me more time to win him round. I can do it.”

“Well now, how very public spirited of you, but no, I believe there’s something else going on here that for some specific reason you’ve opted to keep to yourself for the time being.” Ericsson cocks his head to the side, and stares at Greg with reptilian eyes. “Of course, while you’re perfectly at liberty to do so I must remind you of your obligations. I know you have family who depend heavily on your continued employment here, and I’m a reasonable man who would rather not resort to the more nefarious means at my disposal. But then again…time is of the essence, and I am now fully aware that our illustrious guest hails from a rather impressive lineage.”

Greg narrows his eyes, “So if you already know about him, know who he is, what the hell is the point in all this?”

“Let me be honest with you Mr Lestrade. Relations with the South are somewhat strained and have been for several decades…this you already know, I’m sure.” Greg nods reluctantly. “So what would the offspring of a prominent Sentinel family such as the Holmes clan be doing here in the North alone? We’ve already made some discreet enquiries about the boy, but every set of data found has been heavily encrypted. Someone, it seems, from within the annals of power, right in the upper echelon apparently, is attempting to conceal his whereabouts and identity. Even the most basic information such as education, manifestation, and bond status which would be in the public archives is missing. All we have is a name which Master Holmes himself deigned to give us and confirmation of his birth, dated seventeen years and five months ago. This begs the question why. Someone is helping this boy to hide, all but wiped his existence from both public and private record and he turns up mysteriously a mile from our compound? Coincidence? I think not.”

Ericsson shakes his head a little, like a dog with a flea in its ear. He frowns, letting his revelation sink in and takes another sip of his coffee peering over the rim.

Greg feels almost relieved that they obviously know nothing about the murder charge and the fact that Sherlock is on the run from the authorities and some sickeningly powerful enemies. The rest he can’t explain, Sherlock had been sketchy on the details of his escape and Greg supposes that in doing so he’s only trying to protect the people he cares about, not wanting their names dragged into this mess and make them a potential target even as they continue to cover his tracks. He knows if it were him he’d do the same, die for them if he had to.

He jumps as a china cup clatters loudly into a saucer and looks up in surprise to find Ericsson slack-jawed and blinking in confusion. The dark brown liquid spreads slowly over the desk, spills over the side and splatters onto the floor below. His fingers spasm and as he tries to clutch at the fine china handle he glances up at Greg in horror and a fine white foam begins to gather at the corner of his mouth.

“Sir?” Greg’s eyes go wide in panic. What the hell?  This is bad, this is so, so bad. He casts around desperately, disgusted to find that his first reaction isn’t to help the man at all, but to scan the room for security cameras instead. One points back at him from the upper right-hand corner. Fuck, they can see he didn’t touch him, right?

“Wh…what…h…have…you….do…done?” Ericsson gasps just before his head sags forward onto his chest. His shoulders collapse next, and in ridiculous slow motion he slides down clumsily in his chair, limbs rendered floppy and useless from whatever it is he’s ingested. It must have been the coffee, it’s the only explanation, and it was already here when Greg was brought in, but he’s the subordinate, essentially a prisoner at present, stripped of his status and escorted under armed guard whenever he’s not in the cell. So who? How? Why?

Ericsson twitches and pitches himself forward landing heavily against the hard white surface, desperate, he lurches to his right, breath laboured, hissing out between clenched teeth as he wills himself to consciousness. In a flash of realisation Greg understands what he’s trying to do. Each private room is equipped with a panic button, a manual alarm system to elicit a rapid response team but remain inaudible within the confines of the room.

Greg pushes away from the desk. The chair crashes backwards as he soars to his feet in panic and scrambles around the side. His bare feet skid on the highly polished floor, right hip connecting painfully with the unforgiving corner. He hisses in pain, heart beating out of his chest as instinct takes over from reason and he grabs at Ericsson rough and determined as the man claws helplessly at the handle of a drawer. He’s almost a dead weight by now, heavier than his slight build suggests and with a muffled grunt Greg hauls him backwards and they collapse into a tangled heap upon the floor.

He’s out. Unconscious.

Greg shoves at him forcefully, anger taking over, kicking out until he’s free and his head hits the floor with a dull thump. Now what the hell is he supposed to do? Back pressed to the wall he tries to think, but his scattered thoughts and the surge of adrenaline are making it almost impossible to concentrate.

Get up and get out, he thinks, heart sinking as he remembers who brought him here and the bite of cold metal on his back. There must be something here that could help him. Come on Greg use your head – of course, the bloody desk. Greg forces himself to stand and once on his feet again he moves with purpose ripping open drawer after drawer. Folders full of documents are tossed aside in a fruitless attempt to find something, anything that will give him even the slightest chance to defend himself against the guards. Not that he stands much chance against a bullet, but if he’s fucked anyway he’d rather go down fighting, it’s either that, or hide in a corner and be shot point blank like a rabid dog.

He can hear them coming, muffled voices and the tread of heavy boots. He yanks at the handle of the final drawer, the bottom left, cursing out loud as it resists his frantic tugging. Fucking locked dammit, so guaranteed to be the only one with anything inside worth taking.

Greg dives towards his unconscious form and hauls the man over onto his back. His head lolls comically to the side and a thin line of drool connects the corner of his mouth to the tile below. He’s breathing, but shallowly and his skin looks sickly, but he’s very much not dead and that’s good enough for Greg right now. He pats him down briskly, hands smoothing over pockets, in the search for a key of some description, growling in frustration when he comes up with nothing. As a final resort Greg rolls him onto his side again and with a grimace dips a hand into the tight snug space of his back trouser pocket. His fingers close around a long metal object and he carefully pulls it out.

A knife, a Swiss army knife to be exact. It’s about the length of his middle finger, but at least two fingers wide with smooth oval edges and inlaid in a delicate tortoiseshell. It’s obviously seen some considerable wear, but this does nothing to detract from its serious quality. This knife had cost money, and lots of it Greg thinks, as his thumb traces over a well- worn engraving.

_W.S.S.H._

The knife belongs to Sherlock. It feels warm and slightly heavy in his palm and Greg understands instinctively how cherished this object is, and how it must have saved Sherlock’s life so many times over the past lonely, dangerous months, and what it must have meant to him, the sense of loss and frustration and despair when this precious link to his home and his family was finally ripped away from him.

It feels like sacrilege to use it.

He flips it open as the door rattles, searching frantically for something, anything, to help him pick a lock. He pulls out a thin metal spike that looks like an oversized needle and another that’s hooked at the end. But he can’t use both at once, and impulsively deciding on the first, he pushes it into the keyhole and wiggles it.  

The door to the office crashes open and a uniformed guard bursts through into the room. A rough voice cries out, “Stand back”, and Greg lets the knife fall from his hand and flattens his body against the wall. He raises his arms above his head automatically and squeezes his eyes closed anticipating a blow.

“Fucking hell, I thought the old bastard was never gonna go, I guess the fucker’s stronger than he looks… Sorry if I made you piss yourself mate I thought he might be putting up a fight.”

Greg opens his eyes blinking stupidly back at Murray.

“Well don’t just stand there like a goldfish, do you want to get out of here or what?” Murray grins impishly and strides across the room bending down to pick the knife up off the floor. “Here,” he says, closing it carefully and tossing it over to Greg, “might come in useful on your travels.”

“Er thanks….what the hell’s going on?” Greg manages, catching a glimpse of the other fat guard through the doorway, slumped just like Ericsson on the floor.

“Pulled a blinder, didn’t I? Not even the kid had a clue. Must admit though, I did get a little side-eye in the shower room, but I swear it was nothing dodgy, just checking out the ink, ya know?” he taps the top of his arm.

Murray reaches into his holster with his left hand, the right still holding his rifle. He pulls out set of keys, unlocks the drawer and sucks in a breath at the contents. “This what you were after?” he asks, and resting his rifle on the top of the desk he reaches inside and pulls out a hand gun. It’s already loaded and there’s a spare clip of ammo too. Murray takes both and a silencer, and places them in a pack he’d had slung across his shoulders. “Here.” He shoves the bag at Greg instead. “You’ll need it.”

There are so many things he should say, that he really needs to know, but all that comes out is, “Why?”

Murray sniffs. “I listened,” he starts simply, “To what you said to me that is, so when they came sniffing round for volunteers I thought I’d check things out for myself. Funny thing though, no one was mad keen for this job. But you know, you and me mate, we always get the arse crack jobs that no other fucker’ll take so I thought I may as well give it a go. And then I starts hearing things, about them throwing you into the lions den, and how the officers paid your mum and dad a little visit this morning, they was laughing about it at mess, about making the little‘uns cry and stuff.”

“They did what?” Greg snaps, knowing where the order must have come from. It’s one thing to mess with his life, but to threaten his parents and terrify the babies? And for what? This place makes him sick. Greg  glances down at the prone form of Ericsson overcome with the sudden urge to kick him in the nuts, hurt him, hear him beg for forgiveness, beg him to stop, see his blood flow hot and red. If he even has any. And still it would be too good for him.

Murray catches his eye, and what he sees there is enough to shock him into action.

“Not worth it Greg,” he tugs on his arm, “come on mate, we need to get you out of here.”

He nods reluctantly because there is no other choice now, so shouldering the pack Bill gave him he follows him out of the room. Bill fishes out the keys again and locks the door behind them. “Might buy us a little extra time.”

“What about him?” Greg nods at the guard on the floor.

“He’ll wake up with a headache in about an hour or so, probably. I stuck him with a tranquiliser dart, the same ones they used on the kid, nicked it from the ammo room. Right in the arse cheek,” he laughs, “Barely felt it.”

Greg doesn’t bother to mention Sherlock’s unusual, almost preternatural resilience to the drugs he’s been given so far. He’ll take every advantage he can get at this point.

The corridor is strangely silent, and the absence of noise sparks a thought that’s been bugging him. “How come the alarm hasn’t triggered? There was a camera feed, surely someone just saw what happened?”

Murray glances over as they jog side by side. “Maybe, but I’m not a fucking magician, I thought about blacking the lens, you know, when I took the coffee in earlier, but the bastard was already in there, so this was the best I could do. This sides on lock-down though, restricted access cause of the Sentinel, not even the kitchen staff get in. The gallery too, I called in a favour to block off the right-hand exits, just a little code change but it should buy us a minute or two.”

“How does that help?”

“Well it doesn’t, not much, but we should be okay until we get back to the cell, that’s when the shit’ll really hit the fan…. Here.” Murray reaches into his left breast pocket and pulls out a folded slip of paper. “Code for the door lock, get in and get him quick, it was a fast-acting short term dose, but the kid might still be out. If he is, fucking run, you’ll only have six seconds before the door starts to close. If he’s up, let him come to you, and stand underneath the sensor, that should stop it from closing until you both get through.”

“Restraints?” Greg asks as they near the door.

“Nah, he dropped quick, so they left him where he fell this time I think. I’d better stay here, cover us if anyone breaks through.”

Greg huffs out a breath, “What about you, they’ll kill you for this Bill, you know they will.”

Murray just grins at him wolfishly. “Nah, don’t think so, not if I’m gone they won’t. You think I’m gonna stay after this? I’m leaving the same way you are mate.”

Greg frowns, “And how the fuck is that?...We haven’t had time to plan this. The castle’s too secure, we can’t just walk out the door, and even if we did get out there’s patrols and drones and god knows what else, how the hell is this supposed to work?”

“Come on mate think about it,” Murray prompts, “the perfect escape has been there all along, but you were never gonna get there without a little outside help,” he smiles triumphant, “The Tunnels.”

Murray stops dead, not waiting for a response from Greg, and calmly turns back to face the way they came. “Just get your arse back here as quick as you can,” he says, eyes trained back down the corridor, “they’ll see you for sure but try not to panic, the door locks automatically as soon as you come back through. Smash the key pad if you have time, they might have a way to open the cell, get in from the gallery and try to follow you out that way but if they can’t open that air lock remotely anyone in there is stuck, right?”

Greg tosses Murray the pack, anything that slows him could cost vital seconds.

It’s only a few more strides but it feels like miles, his bare feet slapping on the floor. Greg reaches the key pad and fumbles with the paper, and even though he’s not visible from here, casts surreptitious glances to the distant blurred forms in the gallery. He resists the temptation to scan the room for Sherlock, stabbing at the key pad with clumsy, trembling fingers.

 77426

Greg holds in a breath as the light over the air lock turns from red to flashing green, feels a rush of cold air against his face as it opens.

He’s in.

~*~

The first thing Sherlock feels is the cold press of tile against his cheek, the next thing a heaviness throughout his body and the stark realisation of what they did to him, again. It does little to assuage his anger and frustration that he let them do it deliberately this time, and this knowledge does nothing to erase the look of fear on Greg’s face when for one fleeting, heart-stopping moment he thought the guards gad shot Sherlock for real.

He struggles to pull his senses on line, allowing time to adjust and blink back to full awareness. The cold from the floor has yet to seep into his bones and turn his limbs stiff and leaden. The drug  kicked in quick then, and must have faded out quite fast, so the object would appear to be to swiftly incapacitate and to get Greg out before Sherlock in his heightened state had time to mount a resistance. Do they really think he could have? Do they think him so strong, such a threat that four armed guards are deemed necessary to elicit a simple extraction?

Perhaps they believe he’d do anything to protect his new bond-mate, that biology has the power to render his behaviour animalistic and possessive and his sense of reason secondary. Idiots.

He pushes himself up trying not to groan and shakily rests on his elbows. A persistent dull ache pulses at his temple.

He mostly ignores his captors now, what they do in that room is of rapidly depleting interest or relevance, but what he would like to know is why now? What prompted such a rapid intervention?

His isolation presses down on him, it’s impossible to feel Greg now and whatever tenuous connection they have forged has failed to surmount his removal from the cell. Instinct tells him that Greg remains firmly within the boundaries of the castle and that Ericsson’s absence is similarly notable, connected. An interview or interrogation then, the scheduled debriefing?   Sherlock has no doubt at all that Ericsson will use whatever means are at his disposal to get the information he wants and this scares him more than he ever imagined, fear for someone other than himself this time.

He tries to relax and not to think Greg won’t be coming back and of what he might be subjected while absent. He is shocked to the core that in a few short hours after months of relative isolation, sleeping rough, that he misses the simple human contact. It’s disconcerting, and it makes him feel weak, but does nothing to ease the sense of longing. It puzzles him deeply, Greg is not his Guide, but something about him seems achingly familiar, clawing at his skin as he just tries to _think._

Sherlock climbs up onto the bed, seated at the edge with his legs dangling over and his fingers curled around the soft edge of the mattress, and waits.

Something feels off, wrong. He can’t tell exactly how long Greg’s been gone now, but it can’t be much more than an hour. He shivers a little. The room has gone cold again and he longs for the warmth and security of the bed and someone to share it with if he’s honest with himself. But he can’t afford to let his guard down, being alone feels too dangerous.

Trust no one.

Mycroft’s last whispered words. And here he is, finally putting his faith and trust in an unknown Guide who until today had been a stranger. Would his brother call him a fool, or would he applaud his choice of companion?

The atmosphere is wrought with tension, despite the appearance of normality.  Staff line the gallery stationed behind monitors, one stands, a printed read-out in hand and heads towards the supervisor at the back. They confer, his stomach twists uncomfortably at the muttered words ‘potential breach’ and that they’ve been told to wait for confirmation. Several pairs of eyes turn to stare in his direction and he stiffens under the scrutiny, but keeps his head down, determined not to react.

His skin tingles, a buzz of electricity fizzing in his veins as his ears pick out the faintest of sounds from the long deserted corridor beyond the airlock door. Thud, thud. Slap, slap. Two pairs of feet, running, one shod in the clumsy regulation boots characteristic of a castle guard, the others are bare, size ten, high arches and tacky with perspiration.

Sherlock wills himself not to react, knowing any slight change in his neurological response will only increase the level of scrutiny he’s subject to. He breathes in deep and evenly, the residual fog finally clearing from his throbbing head. The footsteps move closer, only one set now, they stutter to a halt outside the airlock.

A hiss of compressed air, dark dishevelled hair, white-faced and breathless, Greg stands on the threshold. It doesn’t take telepathy to understand what Sherlock needs to do and he feels the surge of relief, the stutter in Greg’s heartbeat as Sherlock looks up carefully from under his lashes to acknowledge him wordlessly, willing Greg to stand still and let Sherlock come to him to stop the door from closing and trapping them inside. It definitely wasn’t the plan, but it could be the only chance they get.

The door clicks and whirs, unable to close as the sensors pick Greg out on the threshold. He wants to give a sign, clear his throat, something, but any communication will immediately draw attention, he can barely believe it as it is that the incursion has so far gone unnoticed.

Sherlock carefully slides to the floor. He scrubs a hand through unruly dark curls and casually walks across the room towards the Guide. He’s still a little spaced from the drugs, slower, unsteady. Legs feel alien, the usual effortless grace is missing and he stumbles slightly, right foot catching in the trailing leg of his cotton pyjama pants which still hang loosely from his hips.

It all seems much too simple, and it is, because then all hell breaks loose around them.

The ear splitting sound of the alarm rents the air. The door begins to close – someone hit the manual override. Bodies rush for the exits, and four armed guard storm the gallery from the right, but when the panicked staff try to exit the same way the door is unyielding and the code no longer works to open it. Some idiot with an itchy trigger finger points a rifle at his back and lets fly at the glass that separates them. It holds, and the bullets raise a shower of sparks but little else and then ricochet back on the terrified staff trapped inside. Someone is hit, goes down hard, it’s just a kid, a girl even younger than Sherlock. A bullet to the shoulder propels her forward into the bank of white monitors, and a bloom of bright red spreads slowly across her back as she stills.

Greg can’t move. He stands in the doorway bracing his arms against the straining mechanism, visibly praying for Sherlock to hurry as he breaks into a faltering run. His arms start to shake, and just as Sherlock reaches him, his left arm buckles and the door jolts inwards a little throwing him off-balance.

So close now…. Sherlock could almost reach out and touch him. He lifts his head and meets Greg’s eyes. Just one more step, closer, he’s almost there…

Sherlock dives and barrels into him, knocking Greg out of the doorway and it closes with a vicious snap behind them. They lie still, breath heaving raggedly, Sherlock can feels Greg’s heart almost beating out of his chest underneath him. They have to move. Now.

“Up!” Sherlock urges, he rolls off Greg and scrambles to his feet, grabbing a handful of cotton and flesh to drag Greg up from the ground. Greg grunts and rolls over onto his front, manages to get his feet under him again, and they take off at a run. It’s frenetic and ungainly, the hard floor unforgiving as they half drag half hold each other up in an unconscious show of solidarity.

Then Greg stops dead and Sherlock stumbles forward as they pull apart. “Keypad,” he gasps, “We need to smash the fucking keypad.” He turns and heads back towards the cell.

There’s no time for questions and splitting up now would be madness and so Sherlock turns too and follows Greg back to the straining bullet proof doors to the small manual keypad set at waist-height on the wall outside them.

“What do we use?” Greg says desperately. He looks at Sherlock, and at their loose soft clothes as if they will provide an answer. Then he eyes his own clenched fist with a grimace and pulls his arm back to strike.

“NO! Here, use this,” Sherlock pulls off his t-shirt over his head and holding Greg’s arm still, wraps it tightly in several twists to cushion his elbow.

 “Would do it myself,” he shrugs, “ but the drugs are still in my system and I doubt if I have sufficient strength right now, but you need to do it quick and hard first time so we can get the hell away from here”. Greg nods in understanding, pivots around and cracks his arm back hard against the pad. The crunch of the keypad is wonderfully satisfying, and Sherlock reaches his fingers carefully between the shattered shards finds the bundle of wires nestled behind and _pulls._ The electric whir of the door dies out just as the guards break through from the gallery. They rush forward, too late, as the impenetrable barrier clicks firmly back in place. Gloved fingers claw at the smooth unyielding panel. They’re stuck.

“Come on, just leave it, serve the bastards right,” Greg yells, pushing Sherlock in the small of his back to urge him on.

Turning to run again, Sherlock’s legs still feel so heavy that it feels like he’s wading through sand, but slowing down isn’t an option and he lets momentum and Greg’s grip upon his wrist continue to carry him forward. And then he spots a guard up ahead and tugs on his arm in a desperate bid to pull him back, but they can’t go back, there’s only the blocked-off cell, and with the way ahead barred to them and no weapons with which to defend themselves Sherlock tries to push his way forward and put himself between Greg and the guard. It’s a ridiculous act of chivalry and selflessness, but after what Greg had sacrificed it seems like the least he can do.

 He spreads his arms out wide.

“What the hell Sherlock, get out the way.” Greg pushes up against him. Sherlock shoves back just as hard.

“He’s armed you idiot.”

“Yeah, but he’s on our side,” Greg hisses in his ear, “Stupid shit drugged Ericsson, so we have to get out now, all three of us, or god knows what they’ll do if we don’t, I know it wasn’t part of the plan, but we don’t have much choice.”

Sherlock shakes his head and tries to remember he’s been in much tighter spots than this before now, and if being on the run alone has taught him anything at all, it’s that sometimes shit happens and you deal with it or go down. And he will not have Greg’s death on his conscience. They’ll have to fight, together.

“And you think we can we trust him?” he snaps.

“Yeah I do,” answers Greg, “An hour ago I would’ve said no…”

“But now?” Sherlock prompts.

“I think crazy as it is, he’s handed us a chance….and we might not get another one.”

Sherlock is torn. They need it, this chance, if he’s ever to find his Guide, or ever to see his family again.

 Every minute that he stays here hurts Mycroft and Molly and Victor. He knows what he has to do.

“Fine then, let’s do it.”

 They jog towards Murray, who is stationed just where Greg left him, rifle cocked at the ready.

“You took your bloody time,” he grins at Greg, tossing the pack into his arms again, his eyes a little wary as they dart to Sherlock’s thunderous face. Sherlock is breathing hard, part exertion part from anger and he takes another step forward and leans right up into Murray’s frozen face. He’s the one half naked, yet he can smell the fear radiating from the man, pulse pounding despite the stillness of his body and the slight sheen of sweat which beads his brow and upper lip. He recoils back from Sherlock, breaks eye contact, looks down. Submissive.

“If you get him killed I’ll rip you limb from limb,” Sherlock spits out and he scowls, almost nose to nose, and despite the fact he’s unarmed and shirtless, Murray tenses again, fidgeting nervously. “And you _will_ tell me why you did this, I haven’t decided if I trust you quite yet.”

“No one’s dying,” Greg huffs, thrusting an arm out in warning and to separate them, “and for god’s sake Sherlock, stop being all…bloody alpha….it’s not going to get us anywhere. We need to work together.”

THUD!

All three jump as the exit door shudders. A reminder that this is serious and real. It’s not a fraction as strong as the bullet proof construction of the cell, but three boys and one rifle don’t stand a chance against whoever, or whatever’s on the other side.

“Wasn’t that our way out?” Sherlock snaps, “So what the hell are we supposed to do now?” he begins to pace, scanning quickly up and down the stark, empty space which stretched like a tunnel between the cell and the outer door. He scrubs both hands through already tangled curls, willing his mind to just bloody function, the drugs have made him weak, stripped all his sharp edges away. He looks around him, twirling, assessing and calculating. The walls are smooth white plaster, the ceiling lit at intervals with long fluorescent tubes, it is nothing but a rat-run between the cell and the main body of the castle. Sherlock closes his eyes against the bright artificial glare and tries to read the inner structure of the building. Where are they? Somewhere behind all this, somewhere teasingly close and unseen the surf rages hard against the rocky shore. He can hear it. His gaze travels inexorably higher. Above them, the sea is above them. But how can he use this knowledge, they’ll all be shot if the guards break through. _When,_ he amends as the metal groans yet again. He growls in frustration, nothing on this stretch at all, no others exits, only the shower room.

The shower room.

Water, plumbing, pipes. It all has to lead somewhere.

“In here,” he yells, pacing backwards quickly while keeping his eyes on the rapidly caving door. The metal frame groans under the ceaseless shattering blows from something heavy and blunt and a gap appears in the centre where the two panels strain apart. Sherlock sees a glint of oiled black metal and in a wave of panic throws his body forward knocking Greg into the wall with a muffled “Oomph” just as a bullet rips by. He senses the heat, feels the air that bends around it, hears the whip sharp crack as it buries itself inches deep in the plaster wall ten yards further down the corridor. They have to move, get out of here now.

“Come on!”

No one needs telling twice. They surge towards the only refuge they have left, Murray’s gloved fingers grapple uselessly, frantically as they all three push and shove together slamming hips and shoulders and knees in desperation. They’re sitting ducks out here. They have to get inside.

As a timely reminder, another bullet rips past followed swiftly by an ear shattering volley of shots. The door gives way with groan, slamming inwards and taking all three of them with it and they fall on each other in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Underneath it all, Sherlock shoves back hard and fights his way onto his hands and knees before jumping to his feet. His mind starts to fizz again taking in all the items in the room and quickly assessing the ways that they could use them, until his eyes are finally drawn back to the shallow metal bowl tightly bracketed against the wall. But of course, he laughs to himself. It’s all so very obvious.

He crosses the room, crouches down to examine it more closely, “What’s behind here do you think?” he looks up at the other two.

Greg frowns at him in confusion, “Water tank, a wall, solid stone maybe.”

“Or a network of pipework, pumping water around the castle perhaps?” Sherlock smiles and brushes his fingers against the short scratchy stubble on his jaw as he thinks. “We need to get this off the wall, there has to be a pipe to take the waste out and another to feed it, and the sink and shower with water.” He casts around or something to use. The others follow suit. Greg dips a hand into the pocket of his pyjama’s, “Here,” he calls, “I think this is yours.”

Sherlock plucks it out of the air as Greg tosses it towards him. The knife fits perfectly in his palm, the warmth of the tortoiseshell and the cold rim of metal around the edge. He thumb glides smoothly across the inscription. “He took it from me,” Sherlock looks up at Greg, “It’s all I had left…of home. I don’t even know where home is anymore. It’s been so long.” His voice cracks a little without him meaning to, rich with emotion. Greg squeezes his bare shoulder and he catches Sherlock’s eye again. _“Well let’s find it again, I’ll help you, I promise.”_

 _“Don’t promise….”_ He starts, before his mind skitters suddenly. They don’t have time for this now, maybe later when they’ve put some distance between them and their captors. Sherlock turns, dislodging Greg’s hand from his shoulder, and flicking open the knife with his thumb, combing through the tools for something he can use.  “Their gonna black us out.” Murray says as the overhead lights flicker and fade. The deep orange glow is eerie, but Sherlock works by touch and instinct, selects a flat- bed screwdriver after running his fingertips over the brackets. The head is too small but it’s the best he can do. He leans his weight into it to stop it from slipping too much straining to turn the bolt counter clockwise. It appears as a visual in his head, just an incline plane wrapped helically around an axis, deceptively simple. His hand is slightly sweaty and he slips, cursing as the head pops out again.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses as the blade almost stabs into his palm. “Let me try,” Greg offers, “or help at least, if you want me to that is.” Sherlock shuffles over to give him room to crouch down pressed in beside him and wordlessly hands the knife to him, shaking his aching wrist out a little. Whether from luck, strength or some previous skill Sherlock knows nothing of, Greg makes short work of the task, deftly unscrewing the smooth metal panel which holds the bowl to the wall. As the last one gives way the panel collapses slightly and a gap appears at the top of it. Sherlock feels air on his face and presses forward.

BANG. BANG.

“Get this off, pull it,” he shouts. Three pairs of hands grasp tightly and yank backwards hard and with an ear-splitting screech the panel gives and they tumble backwards. Sherlock dives forward, reaching into the space beyond and growls.  It’s blocked, but the construction has been rushed and is flimsy at best, confirming his suspicion that it’s a very recent addition. The castle is damp this far below the shoreline and the plaster overlaying it feels wet and crumbles slightly under his fingertips. But they still have to get through quickly. “Murray, get down on the damn floor, now!”

Murray looks at him wildly, “Why?”

“Because I’ll break my bloody feet if I try to kick through plaster and brick and you’re the only one with boots on,” he screams, “Just do it!”

Murray doesn’t argue, and scooting over obediently he pushes his legs into the narrow space. There’s barely room to draw his knees up but he lies on his side and braces his arms out in front of him before kicking out strongly with the solid heel of his boot. He yelps as pain jars up his leg, but the plaster gives a little so encouraged, he does the same again. This time there’s a shower of debris as his leg sinks clean through. “I’m in,” he gasps, pulling his leg back again bringing plaster and debris with it. Wildly, he kicks out, over and over, again and again until a small foot-sized hole becomes a body-sized gap set a metre inside the wall. It should be enough. It has to be. The noise from outside suggests a breach of the rat-run is imminent. Greg looks at him in alarm as a deep distant rumble makes the floor beneath them tremble. Sherlock shoves Murray out the way, peers into the gloom. This is either escape, or a tomb. “We have to do this now,” his voice is urgent, “Greg, you go first, then Murray, I’ll close it once I’m in.”

“Close it?” Greg asks puzzled.

“I’ll drag the panel back, in the dark they might not notice it at first, it won’t give us much of an advantage but it could give us valuable seconds….now go.”

He can sense Greg’s reluctance as he slides to the floor and flips onto his stomach. He pushes the pack ahead of him and crawls forward using his elbows as leverage before he heaves himself out through the gap. He drops through onto a metal grille of some sort judging by the ringing metallic echo. “It’s some sort of walkway,” Greg calls back through, voice muffled and distorted, “And you were right, there’s pipes, loads of them running all the way along this place, I think this is a maintenance shaft or something.”

Murray scoots through next and Sherlock drops down to his knees. His heart starts to race again and his head whips around as a crash beyond the door signals the guards have finally broken through.

“Come on Sherlock, hurry,” Greg calls, his voice has an edge of urgency to it. He can sense it too, Sherlock knows how close they are to freedom and how equally close to death, and as this thought flares brightly through his mind the room grows hot and the air grows thick around him. The tile beneath his fingertips bubbles and spits and he shuffles backwards in terror through the gap. When he’s in, wedged in the tight, cramped space, he reaches out into the room again and curls his fingers around the sharp metal edge of the panel. It glows red, beneath his skin, then orange, then buttercup yellow and it molds to his fingers like soft yielding dough while he drags it back into place. As his hand falls away the faint sunset glow winks out again as if it had never even been there. Sherlock brushes hesitant fingertips gently across it feeling faintly sick and light-headed, and what he feels makes him gasp and snatch his hand away abruptly. He scrambles back the rest of the way and drops down lightly onto the walkway. He feels drained, limp, and Greg peers at him in concern. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods. How can he express what he doesn’t understand himself? Greg doesn’t look convinced, glancing into the hole, brow furrowed, but has he presence of mind to drop it – this isn’t the time. Or the place for that matter.

He looks around him. They are standing on a narrow metal grille around ten feet up from the ground. It runs along the length of the wall on this side with mesh and a rail on the other, the sole barrier against the drop. Copper pipes, corroded with damp and of varying width run overhead, and in the dusky orange glow he sees super-heated steam burst out at random intervals.  It’s almost unbearable to stand here so close to them and his naked skin glistens in the crawling, humid heat. The noise is a cacophony of groaning metalwork, hissing vapour and the whir of industrial-size fans. They’re lucky. It should help disguise the sound of their footsteps.

“Which way?” he looks up at Greg expectantly, eyes glittering darkly, “Or should I be asking the one who got us into this damn stupid mess in the first place?” he to glare at Murray.

“Hey,” Murray snaps at him, defensively, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be in your cage kid, so I’m sorry it’s not the fucking great escape or something, but I had to get Greg out tonight and he wasn’t gonna leave without you.”

Greg’s head whips round suddenly, to face his friend, “Why did it have to be tonight?”

Murray throws up his hands as if to say, ‘you’re really going to make me do this now?’

“Just come on, this way,” he snaps instead, thumbing to the left and starting down the walkway, “If the castle’s on alert the mess room and dorms should be pretty empty…I hope,” he adds. Sherlock hesitates. Not so long ago this idiot stood and watched him get naked in a shower and did nothing, said nothing to give any clue he was planning this escape – and now he had to trust him with his and Greg’s lives? 

Greg looks back at him, standing immobile on the walkway. He signals to Murray to hang on a minute and walks back over to the Sentinel. He reaches out a hand to tentatively touch Sherlock’s arm. The skin on skin contact makes him jump, he had drifted for a moment, retreated into his mind a little, and that just can’t happen here. He concentrates on the warm point of contact and sucks in a lungful of pungent steamy air. “Hey,” Greg says carefully, “I trust him, yeah? I trust you and I don’t even know you so there’s that I guess, so, will you just take my word for it – you can kill me yourself if I’m wrong.” He grins a little crookedly only letting go and relaxing when Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and says, “Don’t have much choice I suppose.”

“Bullshit,” Greg says in answer, “You’re just pissed off cause you weren’t the one to get us out of there, but what does it matter, as long as we did it – but right now, we need to move, okay?”

Sherlock nods his agreement.

They start to jog down the walkway in a line. “You weren’t going back,” Murray puffs as they run, his comments clearly aimed at Greg, “Ericsson already had what he wanted I reckon, and he was gonna…..deal with you privately, see if you had any intel but after that....I dunno, but it came up on the system this morning, a cash transfer made out to your parents to be sent on request, not to you, and the last time that happened was that MIA last spring, remember, that bloke that went missing on night patrol? So, you know, I’m not an idiot, I sort of had to improvise a bit, knew you couldn’t get out on your own, and it just as easy could have been me, maybe not this time but I’d rather not take the risk?”

“But isn’t this a bigger one?” Sherlock pants. Greg has gone silent, the only sound are the harsh huffs of breath as they run.

“We came in together,” Murray tries to explain, “bunk together, work the tunnels together, take every shitty order without complaining so that one day they can decide, okay that’s it, you’re surplus to requirements so we’ll off you and bung your families a little bit of sympathy money all hush, hush like? Nah, don’t think so mate. That good enough for you?” he throws a look back over his shoulder, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock’s mind is ablaze. The two young Guides have had little to no contact with the main body of the castle for much of the time that they’ve been here by the sound of it. And Ericsson never guessed, never realised what this could mean. It has been his downfall, underestimating the weak. Or those he perceives as such.

Murray throws out an arm, “Shush stop!” The wall bends away to the right, the walkway following it round, and he leans forward hands against the stone and peers around it carefully. “Clear,” he says and waves them forward.

Sherlock’s ears prick, and he makes a grab for his arm. Murray swings round abruptly and the hiss of annoyance poised on his lips is swiftly extinguished as Sherlock points down. A Guide is pacing slowly along another walkway below them, he’s not a guard, unarmed in standard grey uniform and he whistles to himself as he ambles along, alone. The three boys hold still, backs pressed against the rough stone wall and Sherlock looks over at Greg and sees a lone bead of sweat roll slowly down his brow. It drips from the end of his nose, completely avoids the grille below and lands with a splash the cheek of the Guide. They see him swipe at his face in confusion before his slowly tilts his chin up. His mouth drops open in an ‘O’ of surprise. There is a crash from behind, reminding them of what they’re trying to get away from. “Forget him, he’s irrelevant, just move,” Sherlock hisses, pulling on Greg’s arm with one hand and pushing Murray forward with the other. The Guide is unarmed, harmless, and despite him noticing them it doesn’t matter anyway, the guards know where they are by now and are closing in behind them. Sherlock runs his hand along the rail at his side, the metal beneath his fingers seems to pulse and vibrate.

Too close. They have to slow them down somehow. Think.

Sherlock reacts on instinct. He slams Murray hard against the wall and grunting rips the rifle from his shoulder. “Sherlock…what the hell are you doing?” Greg yells as he tries to stop him, reaching out as Sherlock pushes past and turn the rifle, butt upwards and leans out precariously over the waist-high metal rail of the barrier. Stretching up as far as he can he brings the rifle down hard. He hits the pipes at the juncture as they curve around the corner out of sight and it takes two more solid blows before they buckle. Scorching steam hisses through the puncture in the old corroded pipes and Sherlock throws himself out of its path stumbling back heavily into Greg. It hisses out in an endless stream cutting right across the walkway. Anyone trying to pass through will be scalded. He hopes it’s enough to hold them back.

“Christ Sherlock, a warning next time would be good,” Greg gasps. They scramble back, keen to put more distance between themselves and the steam as it whistles through the severed metal hissing like a kettle.

“Yeah, you’re bloody mad kid,” Murray adds, “thought you were gonna do me in for a second when you went for the rifle.”

“Waste of precious ammunition,” Sherlock curls his lip, “But what do _I know_ , I’m just a _stupid kid_ apparently _.”_ He plants his palms on Murray’s shoulders and shoves him. He stumbles backwards, arms flailing until the wall breaks his fall. There’s an audible thud as his skull connects with stone.

Greg grabs Sherlock’s arms and pins them behind his back, he’s kicking out, spitting and snarling like some sort of animal, like someone flipped a switch inside him; all he sees is _one of them_ , what they did, how they want to break him apart. Greg’s rich voice cuts through the swirl of emotion. “Sherlock….Just stop it okay? No one thinks that….please!”

“No one’s gonna think anything if we’re dead….which we will be when they catch us.” Murray struggles to his feet again, using the wall for support. “Not everyone is the enemy,” he wheezes, “You might do well to remember that.”

Sherlock wrenches free of Greg’s grasp. He’s barely placated, and fury burns under his skin like fire but when Murray turns to lead them on along the endless chain of walkways he tries to shut it down, not for himself but for Greg’s sake.

“Here,” Murray says at last, “this one leads out to B-section dorms.”

“They all look the same, how can you tell for sure?” Greg glances at a blank metal door set in the stone. It looks identical to the three they’ve already run past, smooth on this side, no handles no key-hole, an incongruous slab of dull grey steel.

Sherlock runs his hand along the surface, his eyes skittering over and up and around it. He scuffs at the raised stone step above the grille. “It’s opened on a regular basis. There are shallow, fresh scratches in the stonework where the fitting has dropped a little on the right hand side, and a sizeable gap, about an inch high on the left running to the edge.” He drops down, couching on his knees. “There are deeper marks here,” he points to left, “Where something heavy, another piece of stone perhaps, was used to prop it open, and here,” he swipes his finger along the walkway, “traces of tobacco ash, and some wadding from a filter.” He holds up thumb and forefinger, a shred of yellow-stained cotton fluff pressed between them. “You’re not a smoker,” he lifts his eyes to Greg, “Not of this stuff anyway.”

“Yeah, but how do we get in?” asks Greg, glancing back over his shoulder as if expecting an assault at any second. But the vibrations in the metal grille are minimal, and the jet of steam should ensure protection, at least for now.

Sherlock presses his ear to the door and runs his hands, lightly, across the surface. The mechanism that locks it automatically has been rendered weak by misuse. He pushes slightly against it - the latch has been improperly engaged. “Like this,” he says simply and dropping to the floor again he flattens his hands, palm up and slides his fingers into the gap. He feels the tips skirt the edge, pushes through a little more and curls them around, gripping the other side before he tugs.  The push bar flaps uselessly and the door swings open just enough for Greg to get his hands in too and pull it open the rest of the way while Sherlock scoots back across the walkway. His knuckles are grazed where they scraped across the stone. “Get in,” he huffs, blowing on the reddened, bleeding skin.

They duck inside, and Murray pulls the door back in place, dropping the safety bar to lock it. They are standing on a landing between two flights of stairs, a sign on the wall indicates sub-level one. “Down,” Sherlock states, and they thunder down the staircase. “Sub-level two,” Greg pants beside him, “when we’re in, its bunk twenty, mine’s the blue locker on the right hand side.”

Sherlock doesn’t question him, just follows, his lungs and muscles burning after the enforced confinement of the past two days. Their footsteps are the only sound in the silence of the stairwell, no alarms no sounds of pursuit. The castle is vast and complex network of original architecture and modernisation and the sub-level dorms are ancient with thick stone walls that in the past formed part of the dungeons. No one spends time here unless it’s for sleep. It works to their advantage and they slip inside unnoticed and unheard, Greg leads them, down the rows of narrow metal bunks to a double tucked away in a corner. He throws his locker open and pulls out two neatly pressed uniforms. “Here,” he tosses one a Sherlock, long grey trousers a white t-shirt and grey over-shirt. There’s only one pair of boots, and he growls in frustration. “Shit.”

“Size ten right?” Murray busts a locker further along the row, pulls out a pair of boots and throws them over to Sherlock. He’s already half-dressed in the stiff, starched cotton, the loose pants discarded on a bunk. It feels odd to be dressed after days spent in sleep-wear, half-naked at times and it only takes moments for his overheated body to start sweating through the new clothes. Greg shoves his feet in his boots, picks the bag up from where he dropped it on the floor and rummages through the locker and drawers for anything else they might need. Sherlock twitches with the urge to be on the move again, “This isn’t a bloody camping trip Greg,” he hisses, keeping his voice low.

“Have you any idea what it’s like in the tunnels? We still don’t know how far out to sea they spread and that’s the way we have to go at least while it’s still light outside. And there’ll be patrols and drones, and I doubt you’ll want them to see you either.”

He’s right. It’s now an attack on two fronts, surveillance drones from the South, Ericsson and the castle guards in the North. Sherlock likes to think he can look after himself, he’s done that for months until now, but every instinct he has is screaming out to stay close to Greg, and Greg knows this County much better than him. His way then. “Ready?” asks Greg, shouldering the pack, and just as they move off again the door swings open. Murray steps in front of Sherlock automatically shielding him from view. He drops down to the floor, and slides beneath the bunk on his stomach. Greg crouches down beside him, and Sherlock shuffles over as far as he can to make room. It’s cramped and dusty and it stinks. After days spent in the controlled sterile atmosphere of the cell, the acrid smell that comes from scores of sweaty human bodies is almost enough to overwhelm him under here.

“Hey,” he hears Murray ask, “What’s going on in surveillance wing, I just came off shift and I missed all the fun.” He laughs, but it patently obvious how hollow and forced it is.

“Nice try,” a voice snaps, “Now where the hell are they?”

“Who?” asks Murray, feigning innocence.

“Your mate, Greg Lestrade, and the freak.”

“On surveillance wing as far as I know,” Murray retorts.

“Funny thing is,” the voices snarls stepping closer, “we just chased three dickheads through a hole in the wall and down the bloody maintenance shaft. I’ve got blisters on my hands and neck because someone fucked up the pipes…so either you tell me where they’ve gone or we’ll hand you over to Ericsson.”

There are two of them, the one talking and another pumping out epinephrine in waves – he can work with that, he realises. Sherlock senses Murray heart-rate kick up a notch even though he doesn’t move a muscle but they’re losing valuable minutes hiding here, and if they don’t go soon the whole castle will be on lock down and not just the surveillance wing. Sherlock moves to the left, and Greg grabs his wrist in warning.

_“Where are you going?”_

_“Just speeding things up a little.”_

_“By doing what? Not something stupid I hope….Sherlock?”_

Sherlock ignores him and snatches his wrist away breaking contact. Having Greg in his head is far too distracting. Too much morality and kindness. The pack lies open on the floor at the side of the bunk. He hooks a finger around the thick padded shoulder strap and carefully pulls it towards him, knowing exactly what he is searching for. Reaching inside his fingers close around the grip of a hand gun and he gently draws it out, along with a slim black silencer. Greg goes rigid with fear at his side.

Yes, Sherlock thinks, he’s about to do something very stupid indeed.

One chance, just one chance and he _has_ to get this right. There’s the faintest of clicks as he locks the silencer in place, then he checks the clip, weights the gun in his hand and curls his fingers around the grip, adjusting them until he is satisfied. He takes aim, left hand underneath for added stability, and sighting past the legs of the bunk, he squeezes the trigger and fires. The noise is barely audible as the bullet flies from the chamber but the kick-back wrenches his shoulder in the socket sending a white-hot spear of pain down his arm. The result is worth it. The guard in front of Murray screams out in agony and they hear the sound of his body dropping heavily to the floor. In one smooth move Sherlock slides out from under the bunk and cat-like jumps up, he raises the gun and stands ready again, stares impassive at the guard sprawled out at Murray’s feet. The toe of his boot is shot through and a trail of bright red blood seeps out onto the floor. It’s barely a flesh-wound, calculated specifically for minimal damage but significant pain and bloodloss – he might lose the toe at worst but recovery will be swift and complete. The outcome therefore justifies the means.  A rifle lies discarded by his side, and Sherlock bends to snatch it up, tossing it over to Greg.

He glares back at the second guard. “Now,” he says, evenly, “you’re going to stand at that door and politely explain the dorm is off limits if anyone so much as attempts to come in. You will not raise the alarm, you will not call for help, or I will find you and when I do, you’ll lose so much more than just the tip of your toe….nod if you understand.” He finishes, snatching away his rifle and tossing it onto the nearest bunk.  The guard jerks his head in compliance and moves off at pace towards the outer door.

Can they trust him not to call out for help? Possibly….probably….unlikely. Sherlock trusts no one right now except Greg, Murray still an unknown quantity. But what other choice do they have – even for one of them to take the risk and show their face means potentially revealing where they’re hiding. He can’t send Greg or Murray, so it has to be the guard.

“Hold his arms,” Sherlock snaps at Murray. The young Guide looks at him with a mixture of awe and fear in his eyes, but does as Sherlock says, thank god, kneeling round behind the guard and pinning his arms at his sides. They’re Guides after all, Sherlock thinks, and he has just shot a man in front of them, in such a cold and calculated act of brutality which must rail against their very nature. They must think him unmoved by this, the monster they fear him to be, but he’s not, he’s not, he thinks working as quickly as he can while taking quick shallow breaths that make his head spin.

This is just survival.

This is what you have to do.

 The stench of fresh blood assaults his senses and he swallows down the rush of saliva that fills his mouth and threatens to choke him.

“You’ve done this before,” Greg states blankly, staring at the seeping pool of red.

“And that surprises you?” Sherlock turns to look at him raising a brow in question, “Once or twice, yes,” he concedes, “with a knife not a gun and a little more….up close and personal.”

“Meaning?”

“Despite what this suggests, I’ve never actually killed anyone…..performed the odd castration though, it was a public service really.”

Sherlock turns his head away, not wanting to see the look of horror on Greg’s face. He has to know what they’re facing out there, it’s tough and dark and worse than the blackest of nightmares and for a boy living rough for months on his own….well…people can sometimes get ideas….

But he did what he had to do and for that he refuses to apologise.

“What can I do?” Greg’s voice breaks through the turmoil in his head.

“Calm him down,” he snaps, a little harsher than intended.

But Greg, incredibly, nods in understanding and an odd sense of calm drifts slowly over Sherlock’s body. It clears his head a little allows him to breathe again, think clearly and work calmly and while the scent of fresh blood remains sickeningly strong he can push it to the back of his mind and concentrate on what he needs to do. An unintended side effect and not something Greg had intended he suspects, but welcome nonetheless.

 Sherlock lifts the pack onto the bunk and rummages around until he finds what he wants. Bending in front of the guard on the floor he pulls out a small roll of duct tape unwinds a strip, he tears it off with his teeth and holding the guard’s jaw taught with one hand, he presses the tape over his lips. Then he takes a second strip and winds it firmly around the man’s wrists. It’s not enough to hurt or hold for long, but will buy them enough silence to stand a chance of getting out of here before anyone else tries to stop them.

“Is there another way we can go?” Sherlock looks around him, at the long rows of bunks that run along each wall, the tall metal lockers and the low line of benches down the centre of the room. It reminds him of the Academy, stark and institutional, too many bodies packed in too small a space, the feeling of confinement crushing him.

Murray answers this time, "the entrance to the tunnels are on this level, we're the furthest under ground here, it used to be the dungeons." He points across from where they stand where the wall is clear of both lockers and bunks, "The way in," he smiles, "So we don't go trailing all sorts of crap through the rest of the building."

"It's the _only_ way in, and out," Greg adds, "And no one goes down there voluntarily...except us," he nods towards Murray who has his head in his locker, filling a pack with supplies and spare clothes. As a final addition he fishes out two flashlights and a handful of batteries, handing one to Greg before slinging the pack across his shoulders.

They're ready.

The entrance is a hatch set in the floor, thick oak planks with a carved iron handle in the middle. It almost looks medieval in origin, but logic tells Sherlock it's relatively modern no older than ten to twelve years at most. It barely makes a sound, lifting up easily on well-oiled hinges leaving Sherlock gazing down into the inky black maw below. Greg flips on a flashlight illuminating a set of steep stone stairs with thin metal rail down one side.

The sound of the sea is even louder down there, it stinks of brine, rotten seaweed and the pungent smell of dead fish. The light tracks down the base of the stairs where the tunnel floor is thick with a filthy layer of sand and rich green algae grows wet and slick in the gaps of the ancient stone walls.

Murray heads down first, sure-footed on crumbling sandstone, Sherlock goes next, right hand on the weak rusty rail at the side, and Greg takes up the rear, gripping the flashlight between pursed lips to pull the oak hatch back in place. The darkness is almost complete, and Sherlock stills for a second, waiting for his eyes to adjust before picking his way carefully down until he reaches the flat tunnel floor.

“The castle is a mid-point,” Greg explains, stepping up beside him, “and from here the tunnels branch out three ways, North, South and East which is out to sea.”

“And West?” Sherlock asks.

“About one mile further South there’s another branch that turns inland. We think it was made like that to try and skirt round the edge of the forest, but the roots get in anyway and it only goes two miles before it all caves in completely. Too much work to clear it.”

Sherlock closes his eyes to make the darkness complete. Down here he can think, down here there is clarity at last. That the way back West is barred to them means little. He’d approached the castle boundary from that direction the sense that he had found his Guide getting stronger with each step East he took. But that way lay the open sea. And there’s Greg – where does he want to go, where does he _need_ to be?

Home, Sherlock thinks with certainty. It may be the last chance he gets.

“We head South then,” he says, “at least until it’s safe to break cover again.”

He senses Murray’s hesitation, the way he hangs back, feet pointing the other way. “You’re not coming,” he states blankly, “You want to go North, alone.”

“I have family up in Berwick,” Murray shrugs, “I’ll bed down there for a night or two…and then they’ll get me over the border into Scotland. Don’t go home mate,” he adds, speaking directly to Greg this time, “You know that’s the first place they’ll look for the both of you, and all this shit’ll be for nothing.”

“I have to.”

 Greg steps towards him, holding out a hand for him to shake, but Murray laughs at that  and brushes his arm aside before crushing him tightly to his chest. “Look after yourself,” he gasps, “and the crazy kid.” They pull apart, slapping each other a little awkwardly on the shoulder in farewell.

Greg stands still, watching until the glow from Murray’s torch fades out and disappears before he turns back to Sherlock and sets his feet South without a word.

Sherlock lets him have his silence, knowing it’s pointless to tell him now that this is just the first of many such partings, more friends will be lost, more blood will be spilled…..

The escape is only the beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to John next chapter and how this same day plays out for him.
> 
> And for some amazing upbeat Johnlock feels I highly recommend 'Shine' by Years and Years (they're a British electronica band, I don't know how well known they are overseas, but the vocalist Olly Alexander is amazing, and he wrote the song about his boyfriend Neil from clean bandit)


	9. Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock and Greg draw closer to home John's life begins to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about pulling all the threads together - literally, and so it's long, maybe longer than it should be for a single chapter, but I was determined that this would be the last time the boys would be separated.  
> So on that note - shall we begin?........

 

 

It’s the thirst that finally wakes John, gluey tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and heated breath huffing over chapped, sore lips. There’s a half glass of water on the trunk by his bedside and the blister pack of pain meds Doctor Stamford gave him yesterday. Wincing as his shoulder protests, John pushes off his back and props himself up on his good side, pops two pills out into the palm of his hand and swallows them down with a mouthful of tepid liquid. Everything still hurts from head to toe, the pain in his shoulder a persistent raw ache and his leg feels hot and stiff from the tight sterile dressing that protects the stiches from chafing and infection. John swirls more stale water around his mouth, more to cleanse than to quench, and eases back down into the comfort of the pillows with the indefinable feeling that he’s missed something, an empty, hollow feeling that he can’t quite put his finger on.

By the hazy yellow outline of the sun through the curtains he guesses it must be around ten or eleven. John hasn’t slept this late in years. The mine, barely a roads width away is a constant buzz of life and noise, winding gear turning, shift changes, loading and transportation, a near constant hum of voices at any hour of the day or night. Or it was. The occasional sound of a car idling by, the bark of a dog, and the crow of a cockerel from the allotments tucked from sight behind the pony field are all that break the silence now.

But it’s more than that. When the village wakes, John wakes with it and has done since he was eight. This quiet is different, like a blanket over his senses and a blank, empty, aching feeling of loneliness. It’s feels like when his dad died, that a piece of him has just gone.

He knows about survivor guilt. Shutting down his empathy as a form of self-preservation? But that doesn’t feel right either, and John slumps back down against the pillows in confusion, stroking absently at the worn cotton covers until his head throbs in protest and a clenched hand raps at his door.

“John? Johnny? You up yet love?” his mum shouts shrilly from just outside. Maybe if he’s lucky she’ll piss off.  “Doctor Stamford wants you in before lunch to change your dressings and take some bloods.” Scratch that idea John thinks. The incessant bloody tapping doesn’t stop. “For god's sake did you hear me John?”

“Alright, okay, I’m up,” he snaps and groans when he tries to sit up. Anything to make her stop and shut up as a small herd of elephants start a tap-dance in his skull. “Blood? What for?” he asks, voice rough with sleep, “he already took some yesterday I swear he did, when I went to his office just before I came home.” He runs the thumb of his left hand over the crook of his right elbow, and squints against the sunlight for a tell-tale sign of a needle puncture. It’s always the right arm – he can almost feel the press of his skin against wood and the tourniquet pulled tight around his bicep. He’s…almost sure it happened, but the nagging haze inside his mind persists.  

The door inches open and his mother’s tired face appears. She’s still in her work clothes with her hair scraped back and looped in a ponytail with the remnants of yesterday’s make-up smudged dark underneath her eyes. It makes her look younger than her forty-five years.

“Well I don’t know dear, I can only repeat what he said. Maybe it’s one of those blood drive things, they might be running low after….you know, the accident, re-stocking the bank in case of another emergency or something,” she says, glancing at the dressing on his shoulder. She steps inside the room fully now and crosses to the window to draw back the curtains. John squints his eyes against the glare, it hurts like it does when he surfaces from underground, that too – bright shock of light. She wrinkles her nose and cracks open a window and cool breeze drifts inside. “Christ John love, it stinks like wet dog in here or something. Try and have a wash before you go.”

Nice.

“Right, thanks mum, it’s not as if I – .”

Oh god he remembers now. The words dry up on his tongue.

John’s hand shoots out to the side and he pats along the top of the covers again, squinting down the length of his body for a sign, any sign, a wisp of dark fur, an indentation from a heavy body, a residual heat that shouldn’t be there – anything to prove to himself that he hadn’t just imagined it all in a whorl of pain, and fear, and fatigue the night before.

But the covers are tauntingly cold beneath his palm.

 

~*~

Getting ready takes longer than usual, and since the dressings are going to be changed, John opts for a shower, standing back from the spray in the middle of the tub. The foamy water, grey with grime and coal dust sluices down his body and gurgles its way down the drain. The edges of the dressing on his leg peel away, exposing the raw pink edge of the wound. He sticks it back down with some plasters from the first aid kit and dresses in his loosest pants – joggers and an oversized rugby shirt. The stairs are a challenge, more from stiffness than pain as the codeine kicks in and he forces down some breakfast, a slice of dry toast and a mug of milky tea as a lining on his stomach to combat the swell of nausea. Harry’s still a no-show, and it’s a bloody good job John thinks, tipping out the last of his tea in the sink, as he’s not in the mood for a row right now and he knows she’ll turn up anyway when either Clara kicks her out because they’ve had a row, or she’s too drunk to function and been tossed out the pub.

He locks the door behind him when he leaves and slips the spare key underneath a plant pot filled with weeds and spent cigarette butts.

The Ellham clinic serves both as a GP surgery and hospital, funded by the mining corporation and subsidised by the Castle governors. It’s still not enough for even this small community, with emergencies and major op’s still transferred the twenty miles to Newcastle. But Dr Stamford makes it work somehow, with a staff of three nurses and a bank of Guides on rota from the village and another locum doctor from Ashampton, the next town over. The waiting room is full when he finally makes it over there, sweating from the effort as he coaxes his aching joints into movement. Half the residents it seems are all crammed into the too small space. A few heads bob in acknowledgement as he pushes through the outer door and John feels too exposed like his secret has been etched onto his skin. Do they know, can they tell?  He feels marked, tainted, undeniably changed.

A scout around the garden as he left had yielded nothing. There were no tell-tale paw prints on the scrubby patch of grass out front, no flattened blades to show where the animal had sat. The same was true inside his room, and if it were real, which was clearly impossible, there would at least have been some sign, some trace left behind from a creature that size. He should have felt relieved. He could write it off, dismiss it as a drug induced, post - trauma nightmare. Except nightmares didn’t have a heartbeat, did they?

John’s mind whispers ‘spirit animal’ and panic flutters in his chest. Because this is one of the last taboos, something no one seems willing to talk about, ever, least of all to admit to experiencing themselves. John shakes his head. But it had felt so real. It’s hot breath in his face, the rich smell of musk and the dense scratchy fur beneath his fingertips. 

Leaning on the cane for support with his good arm, and propped against the wall by reception, he starts to feel sore and impatient, thinking, no, hoping, that perhaps mum had got it wrong, when Mike comes out of a consulting room in a white doctor’s coat with a clip-board in hand and heads straight towards John through the growing press of bodies. He looks odd, and far too young in a too-large lab coat worn over jeans and t-shirt which swamps even his stocky frame.

“John, you’re with me,” he calls out, raising his voice as he waves John over. “Bit pushed this morning, but I guess you noticed that,” he chuckles, quick dark eyes sweeping over the crowded room.

John takes in the chaos and raises a brow in amusement, “Only a bit?  What’s going on...only mum mentioned a blood drive, which is obviously a load of bullshit,” he says. His voice sounds hostile even to his own ears, because he hasn’t quite forgotten how Mike had blabbed to his dad about the blackout he’d had at that party the other week.

He can sense Mike’s apprehension as he bites his lip and signals to John to follow, walking half-way down a wide fluorescent lit corridor, and ushering him into a bright clean consulting room. He looks around nervously, letting John go through first, locking the door behind them to ensure nobody comes in to disturb them. Only then does he take up a seat behind the desk and looks at his friend with a tight, forced grin. John slides into the seat across from him and wonders why the need for all this secrecy and subterfuge. It feels uncomfortably like a trap.

“Not quite a blood drive, no, more like some sort of screening programme,” Mike says, taking out a key from his pocket, and unlocking the bottom left drawer of Dr Stamford’s desk. “This notice came first thing, hand delivered – I – I thought you might want to take a look.” Mike takes out a brown manila folder and slides it across the desk toward John. It has the mining company crest printed on the front, with a few loose leaves stuffed inside. “We’ve been on the phone all morning, trying to pull in as many people as we can at short notice. Dad’s gone door to door for those we can’t contact, and that’s why they’ve put me on triage.” Mike sits back in his chair again and folds his hands in his lap, waiting patiently as John scans swiftly through the documents.

The only sounds in the room are their faint huffs of breath and the rustle of the pages as he turns them.

 John isn’t sure what to think. He scratches his head, rereads the covering letter and scans quickly down the printed list of names attached behind it with a paper clip. It’s short and to the point, stating that in order to conclude the accident investigation, a sweep of the village is required to provide a DNA database of all current employees and their immediate family. John guesses there are bodies still unidentified and tries not to think why. Even in a place as small as this, where no one is a stranger it’s still possible, if unlikely. They must be badly disfigured, unrecognisable even.

His own name is near the bottom of the third page enclosed, between James Wardle and Rob Wilson, both of whom he knows by sight but not to talk to. “These are all miners and ground staff,” he says, leafing swiftly through the rest of the file to confirm his thoughts before handing it solemnly back to Mike.

Mike nods, “We’d gathered as much.  But this is just the first batch. A delivery came this morning too, enough to stick a needle in the whole bloody village if we have to, and it's looking like we might. So, have you any idea what this means John, is it something to do with the accident?”

“Yeah, if that’s what you think it was,” John huffs, and when Mike looks back confused, adds, “They’re probably just looking for someone to blame.” He shrugs, leaning back in the chair again, not entirely sure where that realisation just came from. “The Company is liable to pay compensation…unless they can pin the blame elsewhere.”

It’s hardly a surprise. With so many injured and the mine out of action for an indeterminate period of time, of course it makes a sick kind of sense. But it still can’t explain the need to potentially scan the whole village, can it? Still, John knows its reckless, dangerous talk, which if broadcast could have him arrested. He licks his lips unconsciously. People liked to pretend that these things didn’t happen, the injustice, the trumped up charges for any and all that opposed the status quo of the Castle. Guides are supposed to be different, better, but John knows as his dad knew, they’re just a different, more insidious type of threat.

Mike frowns. “What…I'm not sure I follow....on one of the men, do you mean?”

“Why not? What do they care. As long as the Castle gets its fuel supply they don’t give a shit about the men - what’s that?” John interrupts his train of thought and drags the file back for another quick look. Freeing a pink slip of paper from a clip on the back, he pulls out a second list, much shorter this time, with seven names in all, but only one of them a miner. Or he was one, five years ago before his heart gave out.

“What the hell is this?” John holds up the paper, a tone of accusation in his voice.

“Ah – that’s what Dad asked,” Mike face clouds with guilt as he shoves his glasses up his nose. “And he went with the guards himself John I swear, didn’t want them scaring the kids and Deb.”

“Guards, what do you mean, _guards_?”  The words swim before John’s eyes the longer he stares at the paper.  He notices the eighth name is missing. Greg. But that omission, at least makes sense, he tries to reason with himself. Greg’s not here. Plus, he’s one of them.

“When did all this happen?” he asks.

“About… two hours ago, three maybe.”

Dammit. John pushes back from the desk, his cane pressing hard into the rug beneath his chair. “Then you should have sent someone for me sooner. Come on Mike, I know you got me over here for a reason, I could’ve changed these dressings myself at home, you wanted me to find this, didn’t you?”

John can see the internal struggle, and even though he locked it himself Mike’s eyes flick over to the door again. He lowers his voice and John moves instinctively closer. “He’s my friend too John,” he whispers hoarsely, “and something about all this just doesn’t feel right. It’s like the rest is just a cover for something else, like you said. Have you heard from him, does he visit ever?  Call you? Write?”

“No. No he doesn’t.” John sits back down with a wince and a sigh. “He tried you know,” he admits, “after he first went up there, got me a visitors pass and everything, but I thought it was just a scam to get me up there to try and persuade me to give it a go even though he knew how I felt, how my dad felt. I told him to go fuck himself. I haven’t heard from him since. Two years Mike.” He pauses, looks up at the other boy. “Just say it, I’m an idiot. Christ knows I’ve thought that often enough myself.”

Mike’s mouth twists in sympathy. “You did what you thought was best, stuck to your guns. There’s a lot to admire in that – and Greg knows that John, I’m sure he does.”

Like hell.

“Yeah? And where did that get me exactly, my so-called _principles_ Mike? We barely make rent with two wages coming in.”

He barely keeps the resentment from creeping into his voice. Mike has no idea. What it’s like to go to bed hungry, to go to bed in all your _clothes_ because it’s so fucking cold, and the generator needs a new cable that they can’t afford; to wake up on a winter’s morning and find snow on the _inside_ of the window frame; being surrounded by tons of the stuff down the mine every day but _still_ spending your Sunday’s on the shore collecting sea-coal to burn on the open fire to save the last few quid in mum's purse; boiling whelks in a pan on the flames of the fire and hooking out the rubbery flesh with a hairpin, gritty and salty and disgusting. But it’s food, so you eat it and shut up because it’s still another week until you get paid.

As far as he’s concerned, Mike Stamford has it easy. He’d already dodged the local comprehensive and had a private education at the Grammar school in Newcastle. Now he’s training at the clinic, something John would kill for if he’s really honest and with no Guide potential gets the chance to be a doctor if he chooses. John bites back the jealousy. He could do it too, he knows he could. He has the grades and the brains, works hard and would willingly put in all the hours they asked of him.  And the money, god, the money - three times what he earns down the mine. Mum could cut her shifts at the home to three days a week instead of six and Harry could go to college if she wanted, instead of staring at the bottom of a wine glass every night and pining after Clara after their next inevitable fight. But John knows his duty, what his calling is in life, what is right and what feels completely and unfathomably wrong, and besides, Mike’s a good bloke and a friend and he didn’t choose his destiny any more than John or his dad had.

Mike clears his throat, uncomfortable and John looks up uncertain. “At least let me change those while you’re here, eh?” he points to John’s leg and shoulder. It’s an obvious deflection, but it has the desired effect, and John’s sudden flare of anger dissipates leaving a tight knot in his stomach and a creeping sense of unease.

“What if he’s in trouble and I missed it Mike?” John asks, easing himself up from the chair with the cane, and following Mike over to the examination couch pushed against the wall at the back of the room.

“And maybe we’re making more of this than we should. Look, I’ll bet it’s just nothing, I didn’t mean to worry you when you've enough on your mind. ” Mike adds. He lays a strip of bedroll along the length of the bed and pulls the curtain round for privacy while John shucks out of his pants again.

“But there’s something going on, I can feel it.” John rests his cane against the wall and eases his bum onto the edge of the couch. The leather is tacky and cold against his skin, and he hitches up further, his arse dragging up the pointless paper cover that bunches under his thighs and tears when he tries to smooth it down. Mike tugs back the curtain again when he’s ready, and crosses to a cabinet at the foot of the bed. He takes out gauze and surgical tape, some antiseptic swabs and a new roll of bandage. He snaps on a pair of nitrile gloves and sets to work.

“So, what will you do?” Mike asks, taking hold of the edge of the dressing on his shin. John slaps his hand away because he knows from experience Mike’s shit at this part, grabs the corner himself, and pulls it back towards his bent knee in one eye-watering rip. A patch of hair comes with it. John hisses through his teeth.

“Jesus Mike, I'm just one person, what can I do?”

“Go be John, it's what you do. You’ve always had a knack for this, and if you think there’s something weird going on, then I’m more than inclined to believe you. Just….” Mike hesitates, “Just don’t try and be a fucking hero.”

~*~

Yeah right, no heroics. Good plan Mike. How does that go exactly?

He was always, always going to come here after what Mike had told him.

And it’s ridiculous, John huffs in annoyance – to feel as nervous as he is. Not when he’d spent half his childhood here, playing out back on the tree swing Greg’s dad built, camping out on the lawn in an old canvas army tent in the endless summer holidays living on sandwiches and crisps and juice creeping into the house at night and raiding the cupboards for biscuits and sweets like thieves. They never questioned at the time, why the door was always unlocked and the treats so easy to find.

He is closer to Debbie than his own mum too, or he was, once. John hesitates, free hand just touching the knocker. It’s probably been too long. What if he’s not welcome anymore with the way things are between Greg and him these days. His fingers fall away, and with a faint, barely audible tap the knocker drops back down, much too quiet to be heard inside the house.

But still he can’t make himself leave. He can sense the tension. The air around him seems thick with it. John looks down, sees the broken stems of trampled flowers and the imprints of boots in the mud of the borders. Mike was right, the guards have been here, and by the prints at least four of them and by the buzz in the air they were hostile or as good as and it’s this that finally spurs him on until the sound of raised voices makes him freeze.  John follows the sound, and eases his way past a tall wooden gate leading down between the house and the separate brick garage just in time to see Greg’s dad Eddie storm off across the weed-strewn lawn and disappear through a gap in the hedge.

At the scrape of his cane on the step, Debbie turns, the twins Nate and Erin, peep out from behind the kitchen door. All soft dark curls and soulful brown eyes, peering at him warily. He winks, and Nat’s face breaks in an answering grin. They squeeze out into the open, sticky hands clasped together and patter over, on grubby- socked feet, squealing with delight as John pokes out a finger to tickle them as they pass.

“Come play with us.” A cracked and battered leather football is procured from where it has rolled into the drain in the corner of the yard.

“He’s hurted stupid,” Nate answers for him pointing to his leg and arm, “When the pit went bang.”

Of course they would know, small as they are. Gossip travels like lightening in this place. At one time John thought that was a good thing, someone somewhere always knew, so you were never really alone. And now his heart screams sometimes for the bliss that anonymity would bring. Notoriety for the Watson’s was easily won which makes it that much harder to forget. But this isn’t about him, not today.

Debbie’s eyes are red-rimmed and her arms are wet with soap suds from the sink. John’s eyes flick behind her and narrow at the sight of smashed porcelain on the cheuquered tile floor, and again at the dish cloth wrapped a little too tight around her hand.

“Oh! Hello John love, no need to stand out there,” she forces a smile, brushes a tendril of hair from her face and tucks it behind her ear. It’s falsely bright, emphasised by the almost imperceptible crack in her voice. Small tells that John can’t overlook.  “And don’t mind those little buggers either, they should have been at nursery, but after…well, never mind…come in, come in,” she stutters slightly. The familiar terms of endearment still there even though it’s been months since he saw either her or any of the kids, a feat in itself given the size of this place. But he can’t help but notice the deflection. She gestures him over the threshold.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, “with Ed I mean.”

Her eyes dart quickly to the mess on the floor, “Just his grumpy old self as usual John, just a bit bored and restless… you know how he gets sometimes,” she shrugs.

“Yeah, but not like this.” John widens his stance, and waits for her to answer. Ed and Greg are so much alike, a gruff and masculine exterior, but yet fiercely loyal, compassionate and kind – impulsive and passionate too.

Her smile falls away. “Yeah well, it gets to him, the heart thing. Hates being idle, he says. Stupid man works all the hours god sends down that damn allotment with his veg and the pigeons.” She nods towards the gap in the hedge. “He’ll be back when it’s dark, pestering for a cuppa, sticking his feet in front of the fire, just you wait and see.”

Red seeps slowly through the white linen tea-towel. “It’s not how it looks, it slipped in the suds and I cut myself gathering the bits – stupid of me really.”

“Can I?” John puts down the cane and moves forward, reaching out to take hold of her arm. The cut is shallow and ragged when he unwinds the cloth, right on the fleshy mound of her thumb. He directs her over to the long wooden table pulls out a chair, and presses her down in it.

Going straight to the cupboard next to the sink, he pulls out a large metal tin that must’ve once held chocolates, but that ever since John can remember holds Elastoplast, bandage, gauze, antiseptic cream and cotton buds. He’s sat here so many times himself, picking grit out his knee-caps with tweezers and teasing splinters from his fingertips with a needle sterilised with boiled water from the kettle.

He’s silent as he works, pausing only once when he notices the round pad of gauze taped to the crook of her arm. She tracks his gaze and pushes her sleeve down to cover it. Her arms are thin, the skin papery and dry, veins showing blue beneath the surface. She was his age when she married Ed, and Greg was born exactly nine months later. Now there are six kids and she’s still only thirty-eight, and her husband’s health is failing. Ed is older by a decade, but angina means his hearts a ticking time bomb. Any day could be his last. “It’s good news really,” she says, in a voice that is trying too hard to be bright. “Our Greg’s moving up the ranks. He’s on some sort of special operation.”

So at least he won't have to ask.

“Well that sounds all….very military.” Finished cleaning the cut, he peels the backing from a plaster, holds in gently in place with the pad of his thumb and smooth’s down the edges to secure it in place. His fingers slip down into her upturned palm and press gently. “And it takes four guards to come and deliver the good news?”  He raises his brows and her eyes dart away from his, staring at a picture on the wall as if that might hold the answer.

“Anyway.” She pulls her hand away from his and twists them nervously in her lap beneath the table. “It can’t be all bad, can it, if it means more money and a private doctor for Ed.” It sounded rehearsed, like she was trying to convince herself, or maybe had been told what to say.

“And what makes you think that any of it is bad? John tries to push it further, “although Ed didn’t sound too chuffed.”

“He’s an impulsive man, he’ll come round…and it’s not as if we were given a choice.”

“There’s always a choice Deb.”

She shakes her head and sighs, “Sometimes I forget how young you are John.”

John frowns as he straightens, washes his hands at the kitchen sink. He’s not sure what she means by that, but it doesn’t really seem like a compliment. Young as he is, he’s been man of the house, holding it all together since his Dad died. He dries his hands and sits down again.

Holding it all together. He does that every day.

And Dad had said it years ago – ‘ _You love too much and too deep son’._

“If it’s money, I can help,” he says.

“God no John,” Deb's horror is genuine. “Hell, you know how much I love your mum and you and Harry too, but I know fine well how it’s been in that house since your Dad passed, what you do, how you look out for them both – but who’s looking out for you love, eh?…no one can carry the whole world on their shoulders.” She pats his arm as she pushes up from the table. “But I know you’d like to try, just like our Greg, two peas in a pod you are.... were.”  She smiles to herself at the memory, but John can’t help but notice her correction from present to past tense.  “Now, how about a nice cup of tea?” she forces another tight smile.

Why is it always a _nice_ cup of tea, John thinks. What makes people believe that a cup of brown liquid is the cure for everything wrong with your small shitty life.

“I – I’m not trying to save the world Deb.”

“I know that love…you do what you have to do to look after your own.” She pauses then adds, “We miss him too you know.”

And for the second time, he’s not sure if she means Dad or Greg.

“I should’ve gone with him.” John says, and he knows he _does_ mean them both in a way, though he keeps this thought to himself. It’s maudlin, he knows, and it’s not as if he’s never considered _that_ on what he calls his ‘dark days’, those days when the weight of just _being_ crushes down and it’s a struggle just to think straight, or to breathe, or to force himself to get out of bed.

“No.” she says forcefully, “No, John, you shouldn’t have. We made that decision as a family. If anyone’s to blame then it’s us.”

She doesn’t see his weakness, but then again, no one ever does.

He watches her move around the kitchen, fill the kettle with fresh water and take two mugs down from the cupboard. Mismatched, one striped blue, the other plain white and chipped at the rim. Teaspoons clink against ceramic, a tea bag thrown in each one, water poured in as soon as it’s boiled and left to brew. Steam rises up, amber liquid swirls, and is swiftly doused with a splash of cold milk from the fridge. She carries one over to him and he fishes out the bag with his spoon, gives it one quick squeeze against the side of the mug, the used bag placed on an old chipped saucer to compost later. Nothing that can be used is wasted. He heaps in one generous spoon of sugar from a rumpled paper packet in the centre of the table, stirs, tastes, lets out a contented noise. There’s a comfort in the routine of it, a calming of nerves and a chance to gather his thoughts again.

John watches the twins through the window as they play outside in the garden, on the grass. At three years old they’re the babies of the family, had only just turned one when Greg left home. He remembers the night they were born. They came fast, in a hurry to emerge into the world and with Deb doubled up on the bathroom floor, hysterical, and no time left to call a midwife, Greg had run across the village in the middle of the night to fetch John’s Dad. They’d all gone with him though, John, his mum and Harry too and they’d all huddled up in the living room with blankets and pillows, made a game of it, with Greg’s brothers Dane and Aaron and his ten year old sister Beth. How could they know back then that it was them – John and Greg who were the glue that had held it all together.

After…that’s when it all fell apart.

He’ll fix this, whatever the hell _this_ is.

John takes a tentative sip of too hot tea and puts his mug back down on the table. “What’s the catch?” he asks, meeting her eye directly, “Because I know there is one Deb, he’s years from being considered for special op’s.”

“Twenty thousand pounds.”

 _And there it is_ , John thinks. It's a pay-off, plain and simple, and he’s sure now, as sure as he can be, that whatever the Castle have planned for Greg it has little to do with promotion. Anger flares inside him and he grips the mug in spite of the heat, the ceramic so hot it feels ice cold on his fingertips.

He’d thought it would make things better, coming here. He was so, so very wrong.

A wave of despair courses through him, mixed with guilt and remorse and self-loathing. But it isn’t his own. His defences are down, and what he couldn’t feel, thought he’d lost upon waking comes flooding back over him, choking. It’s like the world has turned the volume up to ten.

And even he can’t hide it this time.

A muffled voice cuts through the haze. “Oh God, John, have we lost him?”

“I…I’m sorry Deb….I don’t know”.

And he should. He should know. Why in hell doesn’t he know - about any of this?

John pushes back roughly from the table. He has to get out of here. Now.

~*~

John concentrates on trying to breathe again.

The atmosphere inside the house had been thick with tension and fear. Stepping outside feels like coming up for air. He used to love the simplicity, the warm familiarity. Now he just feels suffocated.

The further from the house he gets, the easier he can breathe and the easier it is to think. So it looks like Mike was right, and the list of names confirms his fears, in some way he has yet to fathom, everything that has happened, the power surge, the blast, the presence of the Castle in the village…and Greg. It’s all connected somehow.

An armoured van rolls through the village heading down towards the mine. It trundles slowly past him, confused and hot and frustrated, as he picks his way down the cracked uneven pavement by the village hall which hasn’t been mended since the days it was once the school, thirty years ago. It rumbles, low like thunder spewing thick black fumes from an ancient exhaust pipe, engine running rich on fuel.

John tracks the van’s progress, down the main through road, turning right into the empty pit yard where the rickety old buses stand silent.

John narrows his eyes and follows, gritting his teeth at the ache in his limbs. It takes him almost ten minutes to complete the short distance from Greg’s house to the pit head yard. The van is parked by the long-low building housing the clinic, the ground staff offices the communal shower rooms and the canteen. An enticing plume of fragrant steam puffs out from a vent in the roof. It makes John’s stomach growl. He rummages in the pocket of his hoodie and hears the welcome jangle of coins in answer.

No sense in causing trouble on an empty stomach, is there?

And God, this is good. John gives an orgasmic groan as he bites down hard into crumbling pastry and perfectly seasoned sausage meat. Fat, greasy chips, a deep fried revelation follow, washed down with a mug of fizzy cola from the vending machine at the counter. Even off-shift the place still does a roaring trade, the food is filling and cheap and a godsend to struggling families. John eats till his stomach hurts, keeping one eye fixed on the door that leads to the offices, visible through a clear glass panel.

A slight flicker of movement catches his eye, and his heart starts to thump in his chest as two men clad in a distinctive dove-grey uniform exit the Overman’s office.  On the left breast pocket a small brooch flashes gold, engraved with the crest of the Castle.

John slips from his seat with not a clue what his plan is. He moves as fast as his leg will allow at an awkward lurching gait, skirting round the edge of the tables to make it through the door before they have a chance to disappear. No-one came down from the Castle last time, not one. There was a formal letter full of useless trite platitudes and _our most sincere condolences_ on your loss with a modest gratuity of two hundred pounds _as a mark of respect_ ; that, and further offer of employment for John. He’d burnt it in a metal bucket in the garden before his mother even had a chance to read it, the letter and the cheque. He didn’t want their blood money.

“Er…Mr Gregson, could I have a word?”

“Ah, Mr Watson I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” Gregson’s watery eyes flicker nervously toward him, his voice full of false joviality. Not the first time he’s encountered this today. And what strikes as weird too, is that Gregson never uses surnames normally. He’s been here since John was in nappies and with only just over one hundred men, is on first name terms with each and every one of them.

“Apparently not,” John laughs, “But I just can’t stay away from the place. Look, seriously, I really need the work Mr Gregson, I’ll take anything you’ve got, in the offices, clinic, the kitchen even.” He bites his bottom lip, peering up meekly through long blond lashes, turning on the charm, trying to look innocent. It’s low level flirtation of the most blatant kind with a man old enough to be his father, and John knows the thing that makes it worse is that Gregson has a soft spot for him and he loves it, usually. This time he looks terrified and guilty, and John’s not sure how to handle it.

“I…”, Gregson stutters, “I really wish I could help you son.” John catches movement from the corner of his eye. The guards are still there and they’re listening to every word, just as John had expected. Something flutters to the floor from a file, and as the man bends down to retrieve it, John sees that it’s a photograph of the type affectionately known as the mug-shot. They all have one, annually updated and kept with the employee files with their names and addresses, next of kin and a print-out of the most recent medical report.

He feels a hand on his arm and drags his gaze back up to see Gregson’s brow furrowed in concern. “You shouldn’t be here John, please go home and stay there.” He urges, in an urgent whisper, pushing him back the way he came.

Gregson pinches his arm so hard it hurts and as he looks down, confused, a voice calls out, “Best do as the man said son.” He casually leafs through the file in his hands, “Sorry – _John_ , _John Watson_ , is it?” He looks down, reading intently, looks up again and smiles, but it doesn’t reach anywhere close to his eyes, as they lock on John’s face, staying empty and shark-like, glassy and dead. Carefully, casually, his hand slips down to caress the butt of the gun poking out of a holster slung low on his waist, just to make his intentions clear, as if John’s too stupid to get it.

He stares back defiant, and says, “Depends who wants to know mate.”

“Got quite the smart mouth there haven’t you kid?”

“Sorry to disappoint but I’m really not a kid.”

The guard looks down, reading intently again, “It says David Watson, father, deceased – how’s that working out for you _kid_?”

John feels his lip curl and manages to spit out, “That – is none of your fucking business.”

And then he’s pressed back against the wall of the corridor with a large gloved hand wrapped tight around his throat. “Oh I really don’t think you get it _John.”_ The hand loosens slightly and he gulps down a lungful of air. “It’s _all_ our fucking business.”

The guard steps back then, releasing his grip. “You’re a clever lad, I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

 ~*~

It’s a puzzle, a jigsaw with most of the pieces still missing.

He can’t go home yet, he needs to think. But his leg aches again and his shoulder throbs, and the cane keeps slipping in his grip. And he can’t just forget what he knows. So it barely comes as a surprise, when he heads to the outskirts of the village, down a long abandoned tarmac road that runs along the side of the pit ponies field. He can almost feel the static in the air as it crackles and hums along the power lines above him. Coming this way scared him as a kid, the towering metal tripods, the sub-sonic pulse that made his chest tight and raised the hairs along his arms and the nape of his neck.

The road gives way to a narrow gravel path bisecting a field of scrub grass and wildflowers, and beyond that a bridge. It cuts over the narrow River Lyne, which is little more than a stream at this point until it flows back down the bank and through the woods. The allotments are a mismatched, array of sheds and pigeon cree’s, vegetable plots and chicken runs. Nothing is new here. Sheds are made from salvaged wood, fences from chicken wire, gates fashioned from sawn-off old doors. Wooden barrels from the working men’s club now collect rainwater for watering plants, chickens scratch busily in the dirt, heads bobbing and feathers fluttering in the early summer breeze. He hears the occasional dog bark, some kept here to guard the plots, others have their homes here, lurchers and greyhounds bred to race for money or for rabbiting in the woods. They snuffle under the fences as he passes, but when he reaches a hand out to stroke a soft head, the young dog backs off with a growl and a whine, hackles raised in warning.

The Lestrade plot is dominated by a large wooden structure almost cabin-like in appearance. As a child it had seemed so impossibly big, stacked bricks act as steps. Ed isn’t there, despite what Deb had assumed. He’s probably in the working men’s club playing darts and stinking of beer and cigarette smoke.

He can almost hear Greg’s voice. _“Haven’t you figured it out yet short arse?”_

_Yeah – no – maybe some of it. There’s still stuff I don’t understand._

The Watson plot is an abandoned jungle of weeds and crumbling woodwork. Just another thing he needs to fix. It was nice once, when his Dad was still alive, with potatoes through the winter, and tender green cabbage in the spring, and pot leeks for the village show protected from the harsh coastal weather under home-made polythene tunnels.  Dad let him sprinkle carrot seeds in one of two raised beds, and in the other they grew strawberries covered over with a tight green net to keep the birds off. He’s not sure quite what it is – this urge to nurture and grow things, when most of your life is spent working underground. Now someone’s nicked the bricks and the beds have caved, buttercups strangle the strawberry patch the rest is just an impossible mess of two-foot high thistles and wicken grass that he doesn’t stand a chance of getting rid of. A few chickens have broken through from the plot next door and they scratch around his feet, clucking and bobbing and pecking at his laces. He toes one gently aside.

John loosens a small silver key from his keyring, wiggles it into the dull rusty keyhole of his father’s garden shed. It resists at first, stiff with neglect and the passage of time, and desperate to be oiled. There’s a trick, if he remembers, pull back against the doorknob and angle the key to the right while you turn. With a final wrench it gives way, and flakes of old green paint flutter down like confetti.

It’s like stepping back in time, so little has changed, the same, cool musty interior covered over with dust, and a blanket of silvery cobwebs. Tools for gardening, forks, trowels, gloves and a bucket an up-ended wheelbarrow, and on a bench rests a hammer and a jagged-toothed saw.

 In the corner is a heavy oak chest, a relic handed down on his father’s side of the family. He sets the cane aside, tugs at the edge of a moth-eaten old picnic blanket until it slides in a heap on the dirt-strewn floor, and carefully lifts up the lid.

A small metal box sits innocuous in a corner, like the type that could be filled with spare screws, metal tacks, nuts and bolts and the like. John knows it doesn’t. It holds a secret he hoped he would never have cause to seek out.

Another smaller key unlocks the padlock. He takes out the soft leather cloth tucked inside it, and closing the chest again, sits down on the lid. John rests the small bundle on his thigh, and with reverence peels back the layers. It feels smooth, and slightly warm beneath his fingertips, until finally he holds it, cast in the glow of a single shaft of afternoon light peeping through a dirty, cracked windowpane.

 A gun.

John can still smell the gun oil on the dull metal surface, and make out the letters, SIG-Sauer, etched onto the barrel, a P226R. He curls the fingers around the grip, and lifts it, feeling the weight of it, testing the balance, and how it moulds to his palm as if made for him, natural. It should scare him. Not make him feel so alive, so electrified.

 Blood pulses loud in his ears. He sets it down on his leg again, uncovers a second pouch concealed within the folds of the first, where nestled deep within it are the last remaining bullets.

He doesn’t know exactly where it came from, or why. Dad had just said, _‘Call it insurance Johnny, it’ll be our way out of here one day. Always, always have a Plan B, lad’._

Time for Plan B.

He thinks he might finally understand.

~*~

Sherlock’s feet are sore from the unfamiliar boots. Sweat runs in tracks between his shoulder blades and soaks into the thin cotton shirt. Greg walks ahead of him, scanning the tunnel walls as they pass by, a palm ghosting over the golden stone and rough black rock, occasionally bending to scrub through the damp silt at their feet. To what end Sherlock can’t quite fathom.

“Christ,” Greg huffs, his knees cracking as he stands up again, his face cast a ghostly yellow in the wavering light of his torch. “This thing goes on forever. How long’ve we been…”

“Three and a half hours,” Sherlock interrupts, deadpan, wincing as he shifts the weight of his pack from his right side over onto his left shoulder instead. “Give or take a minute or so,” he adds, taking the chance to grab a drink from his water bottle. It’s warm with a metallic tang and does absolutely nothing to slake his thirst.

“How do you….never mind,” Greg shakes his head, sweeps the thin beam of light before them down the tunnel. It barely illuminates a few feet ahead of them, the endless dark and the damp musty atmosphere draining the batteries much quicker than they would ever have done above ground. Sherlock wrinkles his nose and inhales. The air in this part of the tunnel is ripe with the stench of vegetable matter, but the air is still stale and thick in his throat.

“I can bore you with the science if you like.” Sherlock flicks his head at the sound of a rhythmic drip, drip, drip, closing his eyes despite the darkness to concentrate solely on what he can hear; the ever present roar of the waves overhead, sand shifting in the ebb of the tide. A scrape of boot and his eyes snap open.

“No ta.” Greg’s distorted face looms out of the shadows, and he grins when he draws level. “But I think we might’ve tipped West again.”

God knows how he can be so cheerful. It’s insufferable. Sherlock holds up a hand to shush him as he concentrates.

“We haven’t,” Sherlock glances around, crunching shell beneath his boot as he turns, “Tipped West again that is. This silt,” he pokes it roughly with his toe, “is growing wetter by the metre, the waves are closer overhead, which means the tide is almost right in at this point and we have less than fifty metres of tunnel left on our current course.” He shrugs, “Perhaps it just ends here or maybe there’s been a rock-fall.” He won’t explain how he knows, Greg will have to choose if he believes him or not.

“A rock-fall – really?” He does believe him then.

“As I said, _possibly_. But I would say that right now, the tide is of more immediate concern.” Sherlock peers down at his feet, and at the water rapidly pooling around them.  Within seconds it’s lapping at their ankles. “Like _really_ immediate, we need to move faster – now go!”  South is no good now, they need to find a turning point, head West, inland and if that means taking their chances over ground, then so be it, he did fine on his own for months before his capture.

But now they know you, his inner voice taunts. They know who to look for, and it’s not just you now is it, he chides himself, you’ve dragged another innocent bystander into this utter shit-fest haven’t you?

Their footsteps echo loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls and the inside of his skull. “Don’t you dare leave me behind,” Greg pants, grabbing roughly at the sleeve of his jacket, but Sherlock doesn’t even break stride, he can’t. And just this once, he tells himself, please, please, let him be wrong.

He’s so damn right he hates himself.

“Shit. Looks like you were right.” Greg, ever one to state the obvious, stops, the water sloshing around his calves now as he shines his torch over a mass of fallen rock and sandstone, that Sherlock wishes he could move by the power of telekinesis – or some power of some _actual_ utility, because right now he feels fucking useless, small, ordinary. He glowers at the sedimentary rock as if it’s personally offensive as Greg adds pointlessly, “We can’t turn back what the hell do we do Sherlock?”

“We go up.” Sherlock points above their heads. “There’s air coming through.” It’s the truth, he can feel it, a tiny, almost imperceptible disturbance in the air current right at the top. But it may not be enough. _We will get out, we have to_. He sets one foot on a jut of rock and pulls himself up a little to see if it holds his weight. It does, and he sighs in audible relief until a few small stones come loose and he flails out a hand in alarm, fingers questing into the cracks above. “Come on Greg, or are you trying to die?” he urges, impatient, finding another small gap in the rock above his head. Greg says, “No mate, I think you’ll take care of that one for both of us,” as more stones skitter down and he shifts his weight again. Sherlock rams his boot into a narrow ledge, working his way over to the right.

“Oh bugger,” Greg gasps below him as seawater gushes down the tunnel. It swirls around his waist and makes him sway and reach out blindly for something to steady him. The first thing he finds is Sherlock’s ankle and Sherlock’s hand slips down from its tenuous hold, and he feels his knuckles scraping on the rough uneven surface.

Greg lets go and grunts an apology while Sherlock concentrates on determinedly _not listening_ _at all_ while continuing his current upward course.

Sherlock tilts back his head and squints into the shadows, and it’s there, a strip of black only slightly darker than the shadows surrounding it, about six feet above them. Something tightens in his chest – fear? The gap is small, barely two hand-spans in width, much too narrow for the average adult male. He feels Greg behind him, hears his panting breaths and glances down at the swirling black water below, climbing ever higher. How high does it get?  Will it reach the top before they get there?

“Do you reckon Murray made it out okay?”

“Really Greg, we’re in imminent danger of a watery death, and your first thought is if _Murray_ is safe? Now is really not the time.”

He digs in his toes again, swings his right arm up. Almost there, a cold stream of air ghosts over his fingertips. He looks back towards Greg with a grin, kicking out to haul himself over the final lip of fallen stone, and gasps in shock as a sudden shower of salt spray crashes just below his waist splashing icy and wet over his face into his eyes. “Take my hand,” he shouts through a second mouthful, leaning back over the edge to Greg. And it hurts, like being ripped apart from the inside, taking every ounce of strength he has to hold on, not to slip down himself. His hands are too slippery, fingers too cold and stiff and useless to cling on with. Once, twice, he tries, before grasping at Greg’s clothes instead, thick sodden handfuls of drenched canvas and cotton round his shoulder and arm. He buries one hand in the folds of the jacket and hauls on the strap of the backpack. And then he drags and his muscles scream until finally, finally, Greg’s over, they both are, but the water is too and they can’t move any further in any direction. Not without a little excavation.

He pulls Greg up to his feet, motioning desperately to the tiny gap above them at shoulder height now. A large uneven chunk of rock acts like a keystone in the centre of it, smaller rocks packed in around, shoring up the sides and bottom of the gap. It’s impossible to see what lies beyond it. Sherlock presses his face as close as he can and sticks out his tongue to taste the air. There’s less salt, and its drier too, land-based vegetation that wouldn’t survive in a wet, salty atmosphere, tunnel curving to the right turning back inland. Everything he’d hoped to find. He slams his hand against the rock in frustration it’s so tantalizingly close.

For one fleeting moment of insanity, he toys with the idea of taking out the gun and just trying to blast the whole damn rock-face away even if it kills them.  But something must show in his expression, as Greg warns, “Don’t you dare, just – just don’t even think about it.”

 But it’s dark, and he’s royally pissed off so Sherlock bites back, sarcastically, “Oh dear, Did I _really_ say that out loud?”

 "Wanker," Greg mutters, and looks at him like he hates him, but his voice has gone soft again when he finally tells him firmly, “Look, we can do this Sherlock, if you help me, please.” And so together, they claw at the rocks around the edges of the hole, nothing but small pieces falling away at first then larger, more substantial chunks more the size of a tightly clenched fist.

Sherlock lays a palm on the keystone and says, “If we take anymore this’ll all go – can we at least get the packs through, they’ll have to go first, or one of them will anyway.”

He can see Greg poised to ask why and explains, “We don’t exactly know what’s through there, could be a shear drop, best not to take the chance by sending them both through, we might lose everything.”

“Right, okay,” Greg nods, once decisively, wriggles out of his straps and shimmies the pack round into his arms. It’s a tight squeeze, but with some huffing and pushing it pops through and out the other side, and they still have the presence of mind in their haste to remember not to let go yet. Sherlock takes off his belt, and ties it in a loop round the dangling shoulder strap. He yanks Greg towards him and loops the whole thing again through the belt on his own pants, saying, “Kick it through with your legs, then when you reach the other side, pass the belt back to me, and the one around your waist – just in case – just in case,” Sherlock stutters and gasps as another wave splashes over the edge. The force of it catches him off-guard a little, makes him lose his train of thought, his foot slips and he buckles at the knee. “Just go, I’ll be fine!” he urges, his throat raw with salt as he stays crouched down on his haunches, places two palms beneath Greg’s arse and pushes him up and over. The slight kick in the head he gets as a result barely even registers.

“It’s a slope, and it’s dry,” Greg’s voice comes muffled and distant, although Sherlock can see his face clearly through the gap, and it doesn’t make sense why it’s so hard to hear him for a moment and then he thinks, “Oh. That’s why”, just before a surge of tide-water gushes down the tunnel and crashes hard against the rock-fall, cresting up and over his head, because this is it, the pinnacle, high tide with nowhere left for the water to go. And it seems like such a ridiculous way to die, trapped like a sewer rat, before he even had the chance to find him, to know him. _Just once._ Sherlock thinks, _Just his face, just to see it – please just let me have that._

Greg shouts out, “I won’t leave you, you bastard, don’t you dare check out on me – hang on,” and strong arms are reaching back through for him. Sherlock is on his knees, retching and gasping, and something hot and wet and sticky is tracking down the side of his face and matted in the hair at his temple. Greg slips the wide loop of two joined leather belts over his head and it slides down around his shoulders lying loosely over his arms. He gets them through, though he can barely feel them and the band tightens across his chest and under his armpits. Greg drags him to his feet. “But the pack,” he gasps and coughs, heaving in another lungful of brine.

“Bloody leave it,” Greg growls through gritted teeth. “It’s not important.”

“But the gun is,” Sherlock fights against him, trying to reach the pack at his feet, and Greg shouts, “Dammit Sherlock, we’ve got mine just let it go before you kill yourself,” but still cuts him just enough slack to squirm his hand down into the side-pocket. His fingers curl around the grip and he eases it free of the water-logged canvas. It’s too cold to tell how wet it is, but Sherlock makes sure that the safety’s on and slips it down the back of the waistband of the too- loose borrowed jeans. The whorl of water makes it hard to focus, but Greg is wrong, Sherlock knows this is important. Greg doesn’t understand what’s waiting for them out there yet, and he knows all too well.

A final blast of water tips the pack over the side of the ledge. Sherlock turns his head to watch it sink beneath the ink-black waves and in the gloom of his mind it sprouts arms and legs as it falls, then a torso, a head, and it’s him in the water, twisting and turning, trapped, pulled down by the weight of it, the air squeezed out of his body. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe….

And then he’s sitting on the other side not knowing how he got there with Greg’s hand pressed down on the back of his neck, forcing his head between his knees and he’s coughing, and retching and he can’t catch a breath and his face feels too hot as his lungs attempt to climb out through his mouth.

 “Christ, how much did you swallow exactly?” Greg’s voice is rough and it cracks in relief as Sherlock bats his hand away again and answers, “I feel like someone’s scrubbed my stomach from the inside, and I think I might’ve swallowed a razor blade or five,” he rasps, and spits another salty mouthful between his feet.

“If you’d died back then, I would’ve brought you back myself just to have the pleasure of murdering you again, you utter, utter berk.” Greg plops down at his side. “Fuck.” Sherlock lifts his head and asks, “What?” in a small, strained voice.

“Your head,” Greg points, and Sherlock’s hand flies up automatically to the right hand side, connecting with the sticky mass of hair and blood at his temple. And in the dark his fingers pull away black.

“Here, let me get that,” Greg fumbles at his side, searching in their one remaining bag, and then a light pressure, and a hand beneath his chin as the worst of the mess is gently wiped away by what appears to be a balled-up pair of socks that smell faintly of feet and the cloying scent of mothballs.

Sherlock hisses through his teeth. “Careful.”

“Sorry,” Greg says, biting at the skin on his lip in concentration, “I know I should be good at all this, but I’m not, that was always John, you know.”

“John?” asks Sherlock, absently, there are spots of white light at the edges of his vision and when Greg tilts his head the world tips sideways and a white hot pain lances behind his eye, and this is definitely, really, not good Sherlock thinks.

“Yeah John,” Greg goes on, not noticing, digging in the pack for the first aid supplies. “I thought I’d mentioned him, my friend from home. Back from when we were kids.”

Sherlock does remember. But each mention of John or of home hides a shadow of unhappiness that Greg is either hopelessly unaware of or is singularly useless at concealing. Sherlock favours the latter. Greg can’t help but show his heart.

John. John. Sherlock turns the name over on his tongue. He asks, “Isn’t he the one who refused?”

“Huh?”

“I remember you saying - his family has voiced some objections to the current regime,” Sherlock prompts.

“Yeah, right,” Greg laughs, and it sounds hollow, and tinny, and too far away all at once, which is worrying in a way he can’t quite get to grips with.  “That was David, his Dad, not John, but yeah, John prefers to keep his head down, says he wants to keep his family safe, what’s left of it.”

“Safe? Why? Are they in danger then?”

“Well that’s the thing,” Greg tells him gravely, leaning in again with an antiseptic swab and an expression of grim determination on his face, “It wasn’t exactly a secret that the Castle had made them an offer – for John, they, meaning the castle lot, were dead keen on him joining, but god knows how they found out about him, no one but close friends and family knew the truth of it, cause his Dad never dared have him tested.”

Sherlock hums, “Dared?” He needs to keep talking.

Everything narrows down to the sting of the open wound and the deep, salt-rough scratch of Greg’s voice in his ear.

“Yeah, he’s a bit – different, I suppose, you’ll like him, only eight when he. Hey – Sherlock?” Greg shakes him gently by the shoulder.

“Hmm?”

 Greg’s voice fades away to somewhere Sherlock can’t quite reach.

“You’re not zoning out on me are you?”

~*~

When John wakes it’s dark. He’s curled up on his good side on the dusty wool blanket that he dragged from the wooden chest onto the floor with no recollection how he got there. His heart is thumping loud in his ears, the hair at the nape of his neck, prickling. And it feels like he can hardly breathe, sucking wheezy rasps of oxygen into lungs that burn every time he inhales. The fingers of his right hand still curl around the grip of the gun, and almost as a reflex, like he’s done this all his life, or in another, he flicks off the safety with a click and sits up.

He wants to say something, anything to break through the crushing, suffocating silence surrounding him. Nothing moves, no whistle of a breeze through the broken glass pane, no chickens softly clucking, no dogs whining and barking in the kennels, no pigeons softly cooing, balled-up snugly in the lofts.

Scratch, scritch, scratch. A noise like sharp nails against wood.

John’s arm swings round to the door in a slow deliberate arc, he lets his eyes adjust to the darkness as he concentrates solely on that one point of sound. Then low down, at floor level, come wet, snuffling huffs of breath and a distinctive canine whine.

He lets his hand drop back down and clicks on the safety with a sigh. “Really not fucking funny,” he says, pushing the gun down the back of his waistband.

John struggles to his feet and hobbles over to the closed shed door, lifts the inside latch and yanks it open with his good arm with a little more force than it needed. The moon is high and full in the sky, stars sprinkled on black like glitter. And there it is, just as he expects. The wolf blinks up at him benignly, sitting back on its haunches with its tail flicking idly back and forth, a long pink tongue lolling out against sharp teeth, and John would swear that the creature looks more than a little amused.

And then it stands, and John remembers the night before – the sheer size of it, almost waist height beside him, a dangerous fur-covered supernatural killing machine.

It’s much too quiet outside.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” John whispers, “The other animals, the birds, the dogs, they know that you’re here and they’re scared of you aren’t they?”

The wolf just blinks at him and sweeps a hot, rough tongue across the back of his hand. “Does it mean that they’re scared of me too?” John asks, scratching gently behind its ear. Warm, fuzzy hair and heat – that’s definitely real.

The wolf whines softly and backs away from him, and then stops and sits down again, cocking its head to one side.

John sighs, “Come on then, show me,” he tells it, and it bounces up again, eager as a puppy and takes off into the darkness.

“Slowing down would be good,” he mutters under his breath, fumbling with the key to lock the door securely behind him again. He has all he needs from inside now, tucked in the waistband of his sweatpants, the cool, smooth metal lies flush to the small of his back, the bullets wrapped in the soft suede cloth stowed carefully in the pocket of his jacket.  So this is it, he really is insane, talking to creatures that cannot possibly exist, even going as far as imagining them a part of him. I’ve blacked out, he thinks, and right now I’m lying spread out in the shed on the floor and I’ve probably got a concussion or something, cause this, this thing that’s happening, this _this_ simply has to be the single, maddest thing that’s ever happened in my life and I’m a Guide – I can reach inside people’s minds if I have to.

A soft low growl behind him makes him jump. “Don’t do that, Christ, I’m coming,” he scolds.

Out in the lane, the eerie silence ebbs slowly away the further he walks into the village, like some sort of spell had fallen over it like a curtain. The edge of the field is like a crossing point, as he steps out into reality again. But this time the wolf doesn’t leave.

It must be half ten, eleven-ish, John guesses, by the faint orange glow still hovering on the horizon line.

And something feels – wrong .

John stops and the wolf stops too. Headlights flash brightly, heading down the road towards him; a distinctive, heavy, rumble of a noise that he heard only hours before. He lifts up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. There are more of them this time. John counts three, four, five armoured vehicles before they turn right at the pub into the now – deserted pit yard.  John crouches in the shadow of the tall iron fence and waits, holding his breath.

Six men climb down from each one, all armed. They’re wearing heavy body armour, black against the grey, a thick black holster and carrying what looks to be from here, some sort of semi-automatic weapon. And then a sleek black car sweeps past him and turns into the yard. A tall thin figure, emerges from the driver’s side and stalks imperiously towards the line of guards.

_Is this what you wanted me to see?_

He needs to move, now, before they spread across the road and over the estate and he won’t be quick enough to avoid them.

John straightens up as slowly as he can, slides a hand across the small of his back, just to check the gun is secure and then casually flips his hood up over his head. He takes long purposeful strides, only breaking into a tentative run when he’s sure he’s well out of sight of the yard. He can see before he gets there that there’s no one in the house.  The curtains are drawn, which his mum always does out of habit when she leaves for the night shift.  But Harry never bothers so that means she might actually be in, he can’t be sure. But he sees the coloured light from the tv in the living room flickering dimly through the kitchen window. He turns the handle and slips inside while every single part of him screams he should leave, now, go, run.  

“John?”

 Harry stands half-hidden by the door into the living room. John can barely make her face out in the shadows with the lights off, but she’s slumped against the frame a bit, her hair is sticking up at the crown so she must have been asleep on the sofa again. She moves to snap on the light switch. “Don’t! Leave it,” John hisses, and she visibly stiffens her hand dropping down to her side again.

“You’re not still pissed about the generator,” she asks, as she crosses her arms in preparation for a typical sibling argument. He hasn’t got time, not for that, not tonight. He might have ten minutes, five at the most to take what he needs and get out undetected.

“No, shut up and come here,” he calls her over.

He can feel her frown as she crosses the room and holds his finger to his lips to warn her not to speak again. Not that that would stop her. She asks him anyway, “Where the hell have you been all day, Mike said he last saw you hours ago.”

“Down at the gardens. In Dad’s shed,” he says, careful not to tell her _why._

“Christ, hasn’t it fallen down yet?”

John shakes his head and huffs. “Not quite.” This close he can smell it, the sickly sweet scent of cheap wine on her breath. “You’ve been drinking,” he says, and it isn’t a question, not even an accusation, but he stops her before she answers because for once, there is something more important he needs to tell her. “Promise me Harry, you’ll do as I say.”

“John …”

“Just – just , if anyone knocks on the door, and I mean _anyone,_ asking anything about me or – or Greg or even Dad maybe, the last time you saw me was yesterday morning and you don’t know where I am now.”

That part at least has some truth to it. The last time he saw her she was sulking in the hospital still dressed in her clothes from the night before.

“But you’re here, wait, what – why would anyone be looking for you anyway – oh my god, what have you - have you done something – illegal?”

“No – I mean – I really don’t know – l just – I know can’t stay here tonight, it’s too risky.”

He hears the sharp inhale.  “Where will you go then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on John, that’s not exactly reassuring. You’ll have to give me a little more.”

And that’s the one thing he can’t do – because he doesn’t have any of the answers yet, just a vague pang of intuition that some plan has been set in motion, the roots of which have spread much, much further than a small coastal mining village. He guesses that’s part of it – too poor and too weak to fight back. When the Castle get involved, people look the other way. Besides, it's safer this way, her not knowing.

He just hopes she understands, John can’t and won’t ignore this. Keeping his head down’s no longer an option – someone made this personal.

“Believe me it’s better if you don’t know,” John says, “A Guide might be able to tell if you’re lying.”

“Shit John.” Harry scrubs a hand across her face, pulls out a kitchen chair and slumps down in it. “You’re leaving, and don’t,” she holds a hand up, “don’t you dare try to lie to me. I know you John, I know that look. You’ve already made up your mind.”

“I’m not – I’m just –,” he hears her snort, “I need to keep my head down Harry, until I can work this thing out.”

Her voice sounds hollow, resigned. But the next time she speaks it’s about something else entirely. “Clara’s gone. Did you know?”

“What - you broke up – again?”

“No, you bloody idiot, I mean as in _gone_ gone – not here.”

John crouches down beside her, slips her hand into his interlocking their fingers. Her voice is too small. “Sometimes I wish I could be like you,” She stares down at their hands. “Cause then I could feel her John, her heart, and then I’d know – we were gonna get a place soon, somewhere small, one of the flats we thought – but then her brother got ill and she started acting weird and shit, and now the house is empty and I don’t  know where she is.”

John doesn’t know what to say, or how to comfort her. It’s always been like this between the two of them. Harry’s mind is like an impenetrable wall – she either can’t, or won’t, let him in. And it hurts, it hurts both of them, because she needs him and he can’t do anything to help her – she won’t let him. But this time it’s worse, because this time she’s right. He has to leave.

“So,” she says finally. “What do we do about mum?”

“What about her?”

“Christ  John – what’s happened to you? I mean what the hell do I tell her?”

John feels the anger as it bubbles up inside him. He’s always the one who’s been there, always done what’s right and yet it’s always still his fault somehow. To act like he’s the selfish one when she – when she –

His heart kicks up another notch, thumping against his sternum so hard, if he looked down he’s sure he could see it through his clothes. He breathes in through his nose, and it still doesn’t calm him. He’s actually starting to shake.

“Tell her I made a mistake – tell her - I need to fix something, something important and if I don’t do this – people will get hurt, even more people. I – I think something’s going to happen, soon – and don’t ask me how I know this, but my name is caught up in it somehow, so is Greg’s and maybe Dad’s too.” He stops for a moment, lets the words sink in as she tries to read his expression with the lights out.

“You’re serious?” she asks.

“I am.”

“You are,” she sighs, resigned.

“And Harry – for what it’s worth, I really am sorry about Clara.”

The chair creaks as she shifts her weight, and John lets go of her hand to stand. There’s too much weight, too much _something_ , between them, and despite the fact she’s two years older John has always carried the weight, been the rock at the centre of her storm. And now he can’t and she seems lost and very young.

He needs a bag, spare clothes, a little cash and some food, anything he can scrounge from the depleted kitchen cupboards. If not he can scavenge he tells himself, if it’s only for a night or two. A rummage in the recycling bag yields an old litre cola bottle which he fills at the kitchen tap. A sprint up the stairs, and in the airing cupboard next to the bathroom he finds an old child-sized sleeping bag and a waterproof roll. Everything else he needs, he stuffs into an old, worn, canvas back-pack from his bedroom.

Down the stairs again with the bag slung over his good shoulder. The scruffy little mongrel at number six starts barking, he can hear raised voices, and a heavy fist banging on a door. It’s not theirs, not yet, but dangerously close. Harry waits nervously in the hallway. He can hear her breath hitch when she sees him, and diving forward on impulse, she wraps him tightly in a crushing hug.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says, stepping back again, "shit, who I am kidding, you always do something stupid," she laughs. But her hands still linger not ready to let go yet brushing down the length of his arms then taking both his hands in her own. “Your cane,” she says, sniffing, “Don’t you need it? Where's it gone?”

They hear the gate creak open. Harry looks at him in panic.

He squeezes her hand, “If you play it like I told you, you’ll be fine,” he smiles weakly, “And when I get back I’ll help you look for Clara. No one just vanishes Harry.”

And then he’s out the back door and bolting down the path, and thinking _it must be the_ _adrenaline_. So he never hears her say. _“You can John.”_ And he doesn’t hear the knock at the door, or hear the sharp, increasingly impatient questions, while Harry shrinks low in the doorway and pleads, _“I haven’t seen him, you have to believe me,_ ” and the tall Guide sneers and grabs a handful of hair at her nape, leans in, breathing hotly on her face and says, “ _I know you’re lying Harriet.”_

And Harry sinks to the floor in tears, while their small shabby house is pulled apart, piece by piece.

John feels none of this, just the rush of cool air on his face and the sharp tang of salt carried in on the evening tide and the heat of the wolf at his side. It will take him where he needs to go. Keeping one hand loosely resting on its neck he lets it lead him out towards the Eastern edge of the village, where the main road branches off to the right. There are fewer houses here, a row of stone-built cottages that pre-date the mine, now mostly converted into holiday lets, private villas owned by city commuters and John’s childhood favourite, the upside-down house, a magnificent three storey mansion with a giant picture window. 

He stops when he reaches it and looks left across the narrow country lane. The land stretches out for miles. And bathed in the moon’s weak light, are fields of yellow rape-seed and wheat, giving way to patches of marshy wetland, ripe with wildlife and then, rolling out again beyond the dunes is the savage North Sea. Even on a cool summer night like this, the waves are high and white-tipped, he can hear them roar as they crash against the rocks close in to shore. It feels like some sort of warning. It feels like a siren call.

“Why here?” he whispers, half to himself, “I don’t understand. There’s just the beach and – cows,” John gestures around him, and at the dark shapes huddled in the corners of the fields. “Hey, don’t you go getting ideas.” The wolf pauses, sniffing at the air, and a low growl rumbles in its throat. It sets off again without him, not waiting to see if he follows this time, trotting swiftly out of sight around the curve of a bend.  “There’d better be a goddam point to all this,” he mutters, trying hard not to jump at every small noise and rustle in the undergrowth. He can handle this, he tries to reason with himself. It’s only night-time, in the countryside, with an unknown quantity of creepy things creeping about in the bushes being all fucking creepy. And nope John, that’s definitely not helping – at all. John picks up the pace, jogging quickly past the caravan park where most of the vans are still empty. Holidays are a luxury only the richest can afford now. He toys briefly with the thought that maybe he could stay here, but there’s too many camera’s and the campsite employs at least two security guards. He can see one now, a yellow beam of torchlight sweeping between the lines of empty vans. If he wants to stay off the grid, there’s no way he can manage that here, so he walks on, and tries to ignore the pain in his leg.

He stops at the old ice-cream shop right at the top of the dunes. Metals shutters cover the windows and door, wooden chairs are , turned upside down on a low wooden table out front. John perches on the wall to catch his breath. He loved this place when his Dad was alive. They would spend all day down here building sandcastles and plodging in the icy sea, squealing at how cold it was, peering into rock-pools and trying not to slip . 

Ten concrete steps lead down onto the sand. John kicks off his shoes at the bottom, ties the laces in a knot and loops them around his neck. The tide is half way out, enough to expose the rocks on the shoreline but still close enough in to kick up a gentle spray. A line of concrete blocks sit part buried in the sand, storm-breakers he thinks they might be called, to guard against coastal erosion in the long winter months. It’s a good a place as any to sit, and so he does, spreading out the sleeping bag first, then clambering up and stretching out his leg in front. He forgot to bring the painkillers, and the stitches are starting to itch again. And rolling up the leg of his joggers reveals a patch of something dark spreading out beneath the dressing.

A shadow breaks off at the top of the dunes and the wolf trots down to sit beside him. He rolls his pants down to the ankle again.“You’re back then, are you? Sticking around this time?”

They stay like that, the wolf with its head in his lap, the light breeze rippling through its fur. John stares out at the waves for a while, then off to the left to track the long expanse of golden sand. Far off in the distance, blinking into the night is the intermittent flash from the Coquet Island lighthouse.

He’s unbearably tired now, the chill seeping through into his bones.

“Why are we here – I wish you could tell me.”

 

~*~

 

The old man takes the pipe from his mouth, blows a plume of acrid smoke into the salty air of the harbour. “We can take yer as far as The Drift if that’ll do, but that’s as far as we’ll be going tonight lad.”

“Yeah yeah, that’s great – that’s fine.”

Greg wants to laugh out loud it’s so damn close to where they need to be. The Drift is a summer tourist stop, a café at the side of the road at Cresswell which is barely another miles walk before home.

He lets a sharp huff of breath out in relief, and turns to look at Sherlock with a grin. But the smile quickly drifts from his face again. Sherlock says nothing. He sits, silent on the edge of an upturned coble, staring out across the marina, lost in a place Greg wishes he could follow but for now can only wonder what he’s looking at. He can only make out the dark shapes of the fishing boats, the creaks and groans, the rise and fall as they lift and settle in their moorings. It must be two hours since Sherlock spoke at all and now he is barely there, barely present – eyes unfocused and glassy half the time. Greg asked him, right then in the tunnel – if this was a zone, and what the hell he should do if it was. He still doesn’t know.

Sherlock’s last coherent words had been, “ _Don’t you dare try and Guide me if I do zone – it will kill you.”_

He hasn’t spoken since. Greg’s not sure if he believes him about the whole dying thing, but one thing he does know is there are things Sherlock’s keeping to himself about his past. Either way, it’s pretty damn unnerving, like he’s gone into some sort of sleeper-mode shutting down all non-essential functions like a living, breathing robot.

He barely reacted at all when soaked and exhausted, they’d found an outlet pipe set high above their heads in the wall of the now-dry tunnel. They’d crawled along it in silence, following it out to its origins, emerging from a tangle of brambles in the shadow of a wide stone bridge, scratched and bleeding from the mess of tiny thorns. And for one cruel, heart-stopping, moment Greg thought they’d got it wrong. Made a mistake and come full circle, and ended up back where they’d started. But this was just another castle, on another steep hill in another rural village in Northumberland. Deep Norman arrow slits stared out of the crumbling stone walls, empty and semi-derelict – what was left, the haunt of tourists and ghosts.  They’d struggled up the hill, past silent houses and empty pubs and over the crest past the ruin, the pathway then winding down the other side of the bank, and then another half a mile to the marina. 

A wide-eyed sooty face peers out at them from the folds of an old brocade curtain. It keeps the wind and the night-time insects at bay, tacked across the doorway of the faded horse-drawn gypsy wagon. Greg waggles his fingers in an awkward wave and the face disappears out of sight.

 He frowns, “Do you…?” Remembering his manners, Greg fumbles in the front of his pack, pulls out a crumpled fold of notes. It’s all that he has left, the last of his mess money, but these people are poor, and old, and kind, and wise enough not to ask too many questions, and for that he feels a need to show some gratitude – well, one of them should. It was a stroke of dumb luck that they found them here at all.

The old man snorts and coughs, a deep, chesty bone-rattling cacophony of noise. He wipes away tears with the back of a wizened hand. He laughs and flaps a hand in dismissal. “For god’s sake put it away lad.”

“Are you sure?” Greg asks him again.

The man just raises an eyebrow in response. Greg pockets the money , glad it is dark as his cheeks flush hot. “Cat got his tongue,” the old man asks, nodding his head towards Sherlock.

“You have no idea,” Greg sighs.

The old man worries his lip, looking thoughtful, “I’ve been around a long time lad, I think you’d be surprised.”

Yeah, you really would this time, Greg thinks, and you might change your mind if you knew what he was.

They both turn their heads as Sherlock stands with a sigh, and drifts lazily over to the front of the van. Even like this, catatonic and exhausted he manages to make the climb inside look annoyingly graceful.  Greg follows more awkwardly, stiff with fatigue. His muscles protest as he hauls himself up. Tired eyes pick out a wide low bunk which spans the width of the back of the van. A bench runs flush along the left side, and a high bank of cupboards along the right. Sherlock is stretched along the whole of the bench, staring silently upward with his large hands clasped together in what Greg has come to know as his ‘thinking’ pose. It’s better than completely unresponsive, Greg supposes, lifting Sherlock’s sock-clad feet up by the ankles and squashing himself into a corner of the padded seat. Sherlock’s boots are on the floor in a heap. Bony heels flop unceremoniously down onto his lap. 

The van dips again, rocking with the extra weight; the soft cluck of a tongue against teeth, a flick of leather on a fleshy rump.

It lurches forward, hooves clopping on the tarmac.

Only nine more miles till home.

~*~

Twice Sherlock thinks the game is up. The first time it’s from the low mechanical rumble of a Castle armoured patrol vehicle, the same type he was caught by; the second is the high-pitched whine of a night drone. Sherlock’s eyes open briefly at the noise. Greg hears nothing. He’s wedged his pack between his shoulder and the side of the van, mouth slack and relaxed in sleep.

 A sick feeling rolls in Sherlock’s stomach but the vehicle passes without pausing in speed and the noise of the drone fades away into nothing. 

Everything hurts, it hurts to even think now. He doesn’t want to be like this, can feel his body shutting down from the onslaught of sensory overload. He can't remember - Did it really hurt this much last time he drifted so close to a zone? His clothes burn like fire against his skin. It felt like the worst kind of crash after a cocaine high.

Mycroft warned him to stay off the roads, he thinks, moments before his mind drifts again.

He wakes with a jolt when the van rolls to a gentle stop. Greg is awake already. He squeezes Sherlock’s ankle and he raises his legs so Greg can stand, stooping low to avoid the curve of the ceiling. Greg steps down first, Sherlock drags himself after. The old man has turned the van onto one of four small plots of roughly divided land by The Drift, a low white-washed cottage opposite a black iron archway.

Sherlock narrows his burning eyes and stares, picking out the intricate patterns in the metal-work. His heart skips once, a butterfly beat that catches him off-guard and makes him gasp and press a palm to his chest in surprise. That's....that's never happened before. Unless...

Sherlock closes his eyes to see bright yellow sparks against the inside of his eyelids. And when he opens them again they're still there, except now they wind together in a waving thread of light, questing out into the darkness. And he knows the, he knows, that it's coming from inside him. It's stronger than it's ever been that pull towards a something, that's been dragging him forward for these endless lonely, dangerous months. But how could it be here, now. How can _he_ be here?

Sherlock follows the glowing thread wide-eyed, stumbles across the road and ducks under the archway.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” Greg's voice rings out in the night.

But Sherlock barely hears him. He's running, moving fast despite the soft dry sand, his body twisting and turning through the tall marram grass of the dunes. It rips at his arms as he fights his way through, but he can’t stop, he won’t slow down, his body pushing forward even though he feels close to collapse. And then he’s falling through the air into nothing, pitching forward into darkness, and some crazy lost sense of self-preservation makes him tuck, and twist and roll across the sand. He looks wildly to the left and to the right, scrambles to his feet and takes off again.

And then he sees it, a pulse of bright orange light in the distance, and he lurches forward desperately, as he feels his strength ebb away with each step. 

It makes him want to laugh out loud, and a wild bubble of hysteria claws it's way up his throat and out past his lips.

He never asked for this, this _needing_ , this _longing_ , this _want_ that drags inside him. Just once, just let me have this, just once, he pleads to no-one and then his knee’s buckle under him and falls forward hard into the sand, and the last thing he feels are two strong arms wrapped around his waist and a soft voice whispering, “It’s you.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
